


In the pauses, in the sighs

by Handfulofdust



Series: In the heart and in the head [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-24 00:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handfulofdust/pseuds/Handfulofdust
Summary: Rafael Barba spends six months in DC trying to find forgiveness, then comes back to NYC to find his family, only to be thrown for a loop because he thinks his best friend is dating his replacement.Companion piece to "Just when I'd stopped opening doors."





	1. Everyday a little sting

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a look at my Liv is jealous fic from Rafa's perspective but it turned into something a little more sad. (You don't have to read that first to follow this but the plot will line up)
> 
> I'm not sure how I feel about this first part, and not really sure it actually fits with the rest of the fic, but hopefully it works. 
> 
> Special thanks to rosehips for helping me work through this one.

“Is that your son?”

The overly friendly woman leans over his shoulder to look at his phone. He's already regretting this job. He's never been good with petty niceties and false smiles. The best part is that this is an office job. He has a cubicle. 

How the mighty have fallen

Six months, he tells himself. Six months, he promised. 

This is for his mother, for abuela, for the kids paying penance for their parents’ mistakes. For the children hiding from the ICE raids. For every person sent back to a country they never knew because they didn't fill out the right paperwork at the right time. For the migrant workers forced to endure hell out in the fields because someone’s decided their immigration status supersedes their humanity.

For that look he still gets, sometimes, when he goes to certain corners of the city, falls into the wrong building, makes an odd turn. They don't always say it. They usually don't. They don't have to. It's in sideways glances and tensed shoulders, contained anger and broken rage at his merely being there.

_ Go back to your own country. _

As if this isn't his country. As if he'd actually want to stay here if he had another option. As if being an immigrant should dictate where you can buy Hostess. Sometimes he thinks they don't know that his real crime isn't his perceived leech off the system. It's not even entirely about his color.

It's that he doesn't look like them. He doesn't feel like them.

As if we all should look and act like each other.

So yeah, he'll endure Joyce's nosiness for a few months to fix that. He knows he can't help all of it - systemic racism, institutional prejudice, all the buzz words Politico uses to dehumanize inaction - but he can fix some of it. He can try to fix some of it.

He can grin and bear it and drink terrible coffee and persevere through Chris’s third terrible story about his wife's terrible cooking. For the kids, for the dads, for the moms, for the abuelos. 

For the kid he could have been, if things had gone a little more sideways. For the kid he probably is inside, just a little.

He leans back, constructs a smile as he looks up at Joyce. He tries not to notice she's wearing a blue gingham dress that hits her curves in the exact wrong places. She smiles back, motions to the picture of Noah with a dinosaur ( _It's_ __a_ velociraptor Uncle Rafa! _ ).

“He's adorable.”

Be nice. She's being nice. 

“He is, but he's - ” he pauses for a second. 

He doesn't honestly know what to call Liv right now. He hopes they're still friends after that dumb admission he made on the courthouse steps. Where he basically laid out his heart and told her not to ask. He hopes she's letting him still talk to Noah because she likes him and not just because it's too complicated to explain.

He shakes himself out of this line of thinking. This work isn’t about Liv. This work isn’t about Noah (or maybe it’s about the little boys Noah could have ended up like - the ones who get left behind). 

Besides, Joyce doesn't care about this. Joyce likes pictures of cats and and probably has a sampler with “bless this mess” over her kitchen sink. Joyce likely lives a nice, quiet life out in a suburb he hasn’t bothered to learn the name of. She’s making polite conversation.

“He's my best friend's son.”

Joyce smiles back. Does this mean he successfully made small talk? Probably not. She’s probably already decided he’s closed off and uptight and he honestly doesn’t much care. She likely knows his whole sordid past. They’ve probably discussed him at length over the watercooler, made comments about not thinking that’s what a murderer looks like, talked about keeping their kids away from him.

They probably don’t think much of him at all. He’d prefer that. He’d like to have no conversations defending what he did, promising he’s not guilty, producing medical evidence and going on trial all over again in the court of public opinion and idle office gossip.

He’d prefer that he hadn’t actually done it, but every act has consequences, even if you didn’t think of them. Even if you’re not sure what you did was actually wrong. Even if you’re not sure there was a right act. Even if that’s the entire problem.

“My son likes dinosaurs too. His favorite is the T-Rex.”

He nods, slowly, curves his lips into a smile that doesn’t show teeth. Joyce goes back to her cubicle diagonal from his. He gets back to work. She goes back to hers.

They don’t talk the rest of the day. They both have things to do.

* * *

 

_ [I miss you.] _

Olivia texts one day, out of the blue. He has to physically stop himself from reaching over and swiping the call button. He can’t call because he's at work and he's in his cubicle and he happens to share a wall with Kathleen the office gossip.

He can't call Liv because the minute he hears her voice he'll be on the next train back to New York. He's about to write back ( _ I miss you too. Five months. _ ) when the air leaves his lungs.

[ _ I don't like the new guy. He's boring. _ ]

So much for missing him. She misses their working relationship. He doesn't think she knows what she’s doing. He told her, but he's not sure she understands he meant that he's all in. Head first.

New guy. Which means he's just the old guy. Great.

_ [You didn't like me at first. Give him time.] _

_ [Right, learn the ropes and all.] _

There's nothing else. He moves on to researching this impact study. All this paperwork and blathering to try and get a congressman to care about people.

He always thought the law was cold. The people who make it are bathed in frost.

Maybe Liv really does hate the thing he did. Maybe they were never actually friends beyond a great working partnership that probably always develops after so long.

He tells himself none of that is actually true, he just likes feeling sorry for himself. He's pretty sure they were best friends. She wouldn't have let him spend time so much time with Noah if not. She wouldn’t still let him Skype and text with Noah if not.

It's just that it takes effort to maintain a relationship. He's not there every day and so some of that connection is going to fade off. She's probably still a little awkward about the whole confession. He'd tell her he doesn't need anything from her but then he'd have to hear her voice.

He wouldn't actually mean a word anyway. Why lie when you can evade?

At least Noah still likes him. At least that means he'll get an attachment with a blob that’s supposed to be a dinosaur every so often. At least that means he’s still doing something right, even if it's just listening.

* * *

He tries to eat lunch in his cubicle so no one bothers him. He doesn't understand why someone insists on making a decaf pot of coffee everyday when he's never seen anyone pour from it. He doesn't get why there are so many paperclips everywhere when all of their studies and reports and proposals are sent via email and Sharepoint.

He's trying to keep his head down. Contribute when necessary. Push through. He doesn't need connections.

He knows Kathleen has 4 boys and one of them is about ready for college. He resists offering advice. She only talks about how hard it will be to pay for it every minute of every day.

Susan is near retirement. Her daughter is living in California. She's going to live with her after she gets her 401k settled.  

Grant is on the other side of his cubicle. He's some kind of expert on birds and plants. He'll pop over periodically. He loves telling Kathleen about all his bird sightings. Kathleen really doesn’t seem interested in this at all but she makes an effort. She’s as nice as he wants to be. She’s as nice as he can’t be.

Joyce never actually reveals much about herself. Mentions her son's name is Tyler. He likes dinosaurs. That's about it. He likes this about her.

He doesn't think they realize the kind of work they're contributing to. Otherwise he supposes they'd be a little more serious. They're mostly admin support. He's just sandwiched in here since he's basically a temp.

He starts looking for jobs in New York on his lunch breaks. He's not sure what would work for a former sex crimes prosecutor who resigned in disgrace. He's not sure what he’s looking for.

His mother calls him occasionally, asks him when he's coming back, tells him he didn't stay away this long even when he was at Harvard.

“I forgive you,” seeps out of her one day after she drones on about the latest drama at the school. He’s told her to retire. She never listens. As if either of them ever do anything other than exactly what they want. ( _ Rafi mind your own business) _

He wasn’t asking for it. He’s not sure he deserves it, but he appreciates it nonetheless. Catholic guilt and all. Sins of the father, laid upon the children.

“Thank you,” he sighs. It’s all he can manage.

“Rafi you know that forgiveness is a gift for me more than you. That I can’t keep going on feeling this way”

“I know. I know Mami. I'm just trying to figure out how to forgive myself. How to let go.”

It’s an honest answer. Was what he did truly that wrong, was it all just his father’s voice in his head, screaming he’d never be good enough for anyone, for anything? If what he did was so wrong, why was he spared? Why was he offered absolution and now forgiveness?

Because we don’t have to bear our father’s sins, because it wasn’t a decision for the law.

Because ask, and ye shall receive.

“You don't have to punish yourself.”

“I'm really not… this work is for me.”

If he can get this through, if he can make some semblance of progress with DACA, or residency visas, or refugee programs, then maybe he’s still capable of making a difference. Maybe he’s still able to do some good.

Maybe he deserves to see his family after that.

“You don't have to cut yourself away from everyone to do good work mijo.”

“I know but - I promised. 4 more months.”

“I hope you find your forgiveness.”

“Me too.”

* * *

He goes to a small cafe near the GWU campus on Saturday mornings. It’s odd having those completely free. No lingering cases, no new victims, no squabbling with Liv over nothing really. He realizes that deep down he had sort of hoped those feelings would go away. It’s only gotten stronger. Absence, heart fonder, all that nonsense from someone Bartlett probably misquoted. He realizes he’s only making it worse by staying away.

He looks at old monuments to dead men with too much burden. Sits upon the ground and reminds himself of sad stories about the deaths of kings. Thinks of Washington and steadfastness in the face of upheaval. Gazes upon Jefferson’s memorial and realizes that a bad act (even multiple terrible decisions) does not erase your good deeds, not all of them anyway. Gets through his brain that even the men who started this terrible, beautiful, complicated idea of a country were just as terrible, beautiful, and complicated. They were only just men.

He stares at Lincoln in his mausoleum and reminds himself about responsibility and obligation. Resolves to finish what he started. Weeps over the second inaugural address on days when no one’s watching. Sometimes on days when everyone is watching. Endeavors to find peace within himself.

He’s still searching.

He’s tried not to make connections here but some can’t be helped. The doorman at the place he’s renting, the woman he makes eye contact with who rides the same Metro line he does every weekday, Arturo at the cafe. He must look like such a grump. He must look so sad. What with the looks they always give him.

Arturo is always trying to get him to go for fancier coffees ( _ Macchiato o americano? Nuevo opción  _ _ sí _ _? _ ). Sometimes he springs for lattes instead of black coffee with one cream. Arturo seems to think he isn’t being adventurous enough. He means well. He must be getting soft in this aberration, this stop on his journey. The old Rafael Barba would have started going to a new cafe.

The old Rafael Barba would never have allowed himself time to sit in a cafe.

He’s still working on proposals on Saturdays. Chris told him not to. Said he had to allow himself some time to establish a work-life balance. He thinks Chris is kind of new age and honestly deluding himself if he thinks he’s going to stop this work. Eventually he quits asking how all of it got done between Friday afternoon and Monday morning and accepts it.

He likes to sit at the cafe and work on research. He finds it’s easier to think about the people this is for when he’s surrounded by them. He’s enthralled by a story about the families who try to swim across the Rio Grande when he feels his booth move.

It’s Joyce. Joyce apparently thinks they are friends enough that she can plop herself down across from him on a Saturday morning. She smiles, he tries to return it. He’s mostly kind of annoyed. She speaks to him.

“Arturo said he was glad you had a friend. Said you seem lonely.”

“You know Arturo?”

“Only since just now. I had an appointment this morning, and this place always looks nice so I decided to drop in. And look who I find.”

He imagines his face shows most of the exasperation he feels. He decides to stop being such a grouch and let her talk.

He doesn’t know what kinds of appointments are done on Saturday mornings. He wants it to be a haircut or some sort of manicure. He suspects it's something medical. He doesn't ask. If she wanted to share she would have said. 

She drones about work. Smiles at Arturo. She's really quite sweet. He just has no intention of staying here. He can't make any more friends to disappoint. 

“You're very private,” she states. As if it should be surprising to him that people think so, “The girls were all very interested and then Kathleen Googled you.”

It’s coming. The  _ why did you do the thing _ , the  _ what are you even doing here _ , the  _ shouldn’t you be in jail? _

He realizes he probably wouldn’t have done the thing had he thought about the consequence. Had he released himself from the burden of his own making, of his own choices. That’s his real sin - visiting his past bad deeds upon Baby Drew. Conflating his father’s death, his vengeance, with a child’s suffering.

“Ah so now you understand.”

“I knew you were familiar.”

Did she follow the case? He can’t imagine it making the news down here, but the Internet is a terrible thing.

“I don't - I’m sorry?”

Joyce does something he’s not expecting. She doesn’t ask him about his trial, his malfeasance. She reminds him of his old life, the good work he used to do.

“My friend Laura, she had a -- a situation a few years back.”

He knows what she means by “situation.” He doesn’t need to ask. He doesn't remember the case. There's too many. Too many missed opportunities, lost cases, failures at justice.

“I'm sorry.”

Sorry for what happened, sorry she was ever in that position, sorry he probably didn't do enough. He would remember if he felt like he did enough.

“She said you and and the head detective lady really helped her.”

Liv. Of course Liv did. He's happy they were able to do something.

“I'm glad. Tell her thank you for me?”

He knows this is painful. He’s had this conversation with too many people before. Sometimes he would get afraid this part would become routine, the caring part. It only ever got worse. He used to be able to see the law as cold, hard and biting - to be as detached from it as Senators are from their constituents. Now he feels used by it a little. He wanted to be a crusader like Liv and lost his ass trying.

“She didn't end up going to trial, said she couldn't handle it but she felt justice or something because you all listened, because you were willing to take to trial.”

“It was my job.”

It’s what he always says. He never did anything anyone else wouldn’t have. Except, he knows that’s not really true. He knows he was brash and would run circles around what was considered protocol if it got him a conviction. He knows he put his whole heart - his whole world into it sometimes. 

Maybe he doesn’t exactly regret some of his choices.

It's not a small thing that she's not mentioning his case. He knows the trial is probably the first result with his name. She doesn't have to be nice about any of this.

He helped. He's been helping. He still is helping. If he succeeds or not the gestures stand. The effort stands.

Ask.

He's received his forgiveness from his mother. He's been cleared by the courts. He thinks he's finally able to accept it.

Joyce doesn't owe him a thing. She's just offering kindness. She's reaching through a black hole and drawing him back into this world. She’s pulling him out of his self-induced penance for no other reason than he helped her friend by giving a crap.

She doesn't even know she's doing it. He didn't even know he helped her friend. The myriad petty sacrifices we make. The connections we push through. He's okay.

“I know you think we’re a bit ridiculous but we all really do like you. In spite of the fact that you sit back there and sigh at least once an hour.”

Maybe people notice more things than we think.

“I've come to actually like you all a bit too. Just don't tell anyone.”

He’s not even really lying. He’s not even really just being nice. The smile he gives her is actually sort of genuine. Maybe he is finally ready to go home. It’s just not time.

She asks him what he’s reading and she makes a sad face. Tells him the reason she works for the think tank is because she used to be a social worker and couldn’t take all the heartache any more. Tells him that she feels like she’s contributing to something just a little when Chris picks a good project. Tells him he can’t lose his head in this work or he’ll drown completely. He knows just exactly what she means.

Maybe we have more in common with people than we ever dared to give them credit for.

“Your friend, with the son?”

She reaches her hand over, squeezes his.

“Yeah?”

“Does she know you're in love with her?”

He sighs, laughs. He always was a little obvious with that. He's still obvious 200 some odd miles away. With Joyce who hasn't even met her. The kinds of faces he must be making at texts, the details he must have let slip, the thoughts he must be voicing. 

Maybe Joyce is a little more incisive than he wants to give her credit for.

“Yeah. At least, I think she does,” he looks off and mentally tries to crawl under the table and into the carpet. Joyce is unforgiving.

“Well she's a moron. I'll call her and tell her you're a catch for you. If you want.”

He can’t help but give a half sort of smile at that one. Liv is not a moron. He is not a catch. Joyce is just sweet.

“She's not. She's just not interested. It's fine.”

He moves his hand, gestures some noncommittal semblance of it being okay. Joyce isn’t buying that.

“I'm not sure what part of you she's not interested in but I hope you can find somebody. Love is - it hurts but it's nice when you have somebody.”

He wants to ask about more of her life. Wants to let her open up a bit more, about things that aren’t her job or her past work, but he can't find the words. He doesn't actually care, just that Joyce is a nice person and they’ve both been through some shit and he's trying to be nice too.

This is just a stop, a waystation on whatever journey he's actually on. He doesn't think she wants to tell him. They're not really friends - just kindred spirits trying to stab at progress. His family is back in New York and he can't explain that without being an asshole.

“Yeah, it probably is. I'm glad you have your son.”

He opens up a little after that. The next three months aren't as horrifying. He still misses his family. The whole squad. His world still stops a little every time he gets a picture from Noah. Heart still skitters a few beats whenever he sees “Olivia” on his phone. 

He thinks he should be able to fake it once he gets back. Pretend all he wants to be is the best friend and uncle in name only. He thinks he's built up enough scar tissue around his heart to survive it. 

Chris offers him an extension about a month before his last day. Says he's a hothead but he's good at this. He thanks him but says he's got to get back to New York.

On his last day they all split a cake that he doesn't eat. He thinks this is just an excuse for cake.

He thinks they may actually miss him. He may actually miss them.

He finds he did make connections, in spite of his best efforts. Maybe he was always supposed to. Maybe it’s in the little nods and sighs. Maybe everyone has a bit more in common than we’d like to admit. Maybe more people give a crap than we realize.

Connection isn’t a bad thing. It’s time to lean into it and get his best friend back. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t love him. He’s fine being Uncle Rafa. He’ll give her away at her wedding or be her groomsmaid or whatever the trend is now.

He can pour himself into work like this again because he knows he can come out the other end without drowning.

It's time to move forward.

_ With malice toward none, and charity for all _

 


	2. In the murmurs, in the gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafael comes back to NYC, and makes a new friend, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I can live up to the first chapter and thank you for the lovely responses to it. :) Here is where we start to line up with the other piece.

He's back in New York.

He's working with the Community Outreach and Crime Prevention Task Force in the Mayor's Office. This is all just political mumbo jumbo and weasel words that don't actually mean much. All it means is that he's a bridge between the citizens and the mayor - a more direct line from the outside. 

Actually, he's running this Task Force. He's the guy who gets to help smooth things over with the people when the city goes into powder keg mode. He likes to think of it as him being an advocate for the people from the inside. He's not sure this is actually true, but he's already been able to get some progress made on a few initiatives (he's particularly proud of his contribution to the sanctuary city policy). 

Chris put in a good word for him with the new mayor to be put into consideration for the gig. He's confused about this. Chris always hated him. Said he got too riled up for the kind of work they were doing.

Maybe he didn't. Maybe people are more complex than we give them credit for. 

The job is just the right amount of politics and difference. A tenuous mix of actual important work and tedious charm. 

It's perfect for him. Maybe Chris knows exactly what he's doing. 

He told Olivia he was coming back last Thursday. It's not the thing he should have done with a text, but he couldn't muster up the courage to call her. To hear in her voice how disappointed she was in him. For running away, for not staying away - he's not sure. 

He’s going to have to learn to stand it, though. If not for anything but for Noah. If not for Noah, for himself. He's learning to think about himself a few times. Once a week or so. 

So here he is - outside her apartment building, clutching a bottle of wine. He thought about flowers but decided that was a little forward. She might interpret it as him declaring his feelings all over again. The wine is enough. 

He's not sure how he's supposed to do this. He should have called. Should have texted. Should have made sure she didn't have a case.

Or a date.

Buck up buttercup. No sense being scared of your best friend. It's going to happen eventually -he's been through it before. Almost lost her completely after Tucker. 

The doorman lets him in without asking for a name. He can't look the same. He makes a mental note to say something about this to Liv. He'll probably forget. 

He knocks on her door and waits a few minutes for it to open. She may not even be home. He's looking at the label of the bottle, fidgeting with the edges, when he hears the door unlatch.

She’s not really looking at him, yelling at Noah to sit still. It gives him a few precious seconds to get his wits, remember he can't just grab her and kiss her and hold her. 

Yeah. That's why he stayed away. It’s not the whole reason, but it’s a big part. 

She turns and looks him in the face, shakes her head a little. Almost to snap herself out of it. She seems… confused.

“Rafael?”

Full name. Ouch. He deserves that. He should have called her, should have texted her. Should have made sure this was okay. 

“Hi,” he shrugs. He's got mountains of things to say, could build monuments out of them. Of course what he lands on is something dumb and inexpressive. 

She's wearing sweats and a ratty t-shirt, no shoes. She must've thought he was a delivery person or the super or something. Or someone.

Stop. 

“Sorry to interrupt your night, just wanted to drop by and let you know I made it in and -” he pushes the bottle into her hands, like it's suddenly burning him.

She jumps a little. Looks down at the bottle now in her hands, shakes herself out of it. He looks down at his fingers, picks at his cuticles. 

“Anyway I'm sure you're waiting for someone. I'll get out of your hair. Say hi to Noah for me.”

She's smiling. Hip against the door frame. Thumb running along the neck of the bottle. She gestures back.

“You could say hi to him yourself.” 

He smiles back, allows himself to enter the apartment behind her. He feels warmth and light in places he'd almost forgotten. 

“Uncle Rafa!” Noah screams from the couch. Jumps up over to him. He lurches for his legs. He grins and wraps an arm around him. 

He ruffles Noah's hair, tries to lean down but the boy keeps his hold. He laughs.

“Amigo, come on, I'm sure you're supposed to be getting ready for dinner.”

He doesn’t know what time dinner is. Noah pulls back and looks up, face all seriousness. 

“We're all done. I had chicken nuggets!” 

He drags him by the hand to the coffee table and kneels behind it. 

“Come play dinosaurs! You can be the stegosaurus” 

He looks up at Liv - she just seems amused. He sits down, rolls with whatever strange play the child has concocted. Something about the T-Rex making friends. He's really not sure he follows. They go along with this for a few more minutes. He feels like he’s basically just rotating the dinosaur in the air occasionally and coming up with lines about eating only leaves. He should probably do some research on stegosauruses, but Noah thinks it’s hilarious. 

Liv lets them play, goes to the kitchen and cleans up the plates from dinner, sets the wine on the counter. He’s fine playing with Noah, he's really quite glad to play with Noah, but that’s really not why he came here. He’s not entirely sure why he came here tonight. 

She tells Noah it’s time for bed. He makes a show of pouting, begging for more time. She doesn’t let him, gets him to brush his teeth. He wants Uncle Rafa to read him a story. He obliges. Noah falls asleep before he’s even halfway done. 

He closes the door gently behind him, walks to get his shoes, which had somehow come off when they were at the coffee table. She follows him, goes to sit on the couch. She doesn’t ask for him to sit next to her, she doesn’t offer a glass of the wine he brought, or of the scotch he can see on the top of her fridge. 

He’s starting to finally get the message. This is for Noah, not for them. He doesn’t really know what he was expecting. 

He toes on his shoes. Straightens out his sweater. 

“I'm sorry for dropping by so suddenly.” 

She jolts out of whatever trance she was in. Looks up at him, confused. Her face falters. 

“It's not a problem. I was just surprised. I didn't think you were supposed to be in until next week.”

Yeah, he suspects, it’s a bit like Lazarus come back from the dead.

“I took an earlier train.”

He doesn’t mention he’d always planned on taking that train. He just assumed he’d need a full week to get his courage up to come over here. He still feels like crawling into the carpet. She motions for him to come to the couch. Sit, stay, talk. 

He tells her of the work he did in DC. They’d never quite discussed it, he's not sure she really follows the finer points of it. She's still listening, seems hopeful, seems happy. He's detecting a vague sense of wistfulness but that may be from him. 

He tells her how excited he is to be working with the mayor’s office. He feels he can actually make a difference, in a way that the law was never able to. He can work within the system to effect change. He knows that sounds idealistic even for him and Liv raises an eyebrow at him. He knows politics is a dirty, nasty business full of crumbums and fat cats, but he really thinks this will work for him. He’s not exactly playing politics anyway. 

God he missed this, her, so much. She still takes his breath away in old sweatpants and a dingy T-shirt. He’s always been done for.

She tells him the latest drama around the precinct. Shares as much as she thinks she's allowed to about her ongoing cases. Mostly talks about Noah and his Little League and dinosaurs and drawings. He’d honestly much rather hear about that, even if he doesn’t really follow baseball. 

They catch up and chat and it feels like old times. He actually feels his heart underneath all that scar tissue and dirt. 

What stops it from bursting out again is that he knows she doesn't love him. At least, not in any way that's romantic. Not in any way beyond friendship.

Things are never going to go back to the way they were. 

* * *

 

Slowly, surely they ingratiate their way back into each other’s lives. He visits the precinct, to say hi, to introduce himself as an advocate on behalf of the city. Community Outreach mostly involves work with Social Services and Narcotics, but he’s here to help. He hands his business card to her. She stashes it in some drawer immediately. Likely along with a thousand other dumb advocates’ business cards he’s sure. 

She’s humoring him. She’s glad he’s back and they’re still friends, but sometimes he wonders if she even cares that he’s in love with her, if she even remembers his dumb speech about colors and old movies. She doesn’t even know who Gary Cooper is. 

She’s not going to acknowledge it because she’s not going to ruin their friendship. He’s not going to acknowledge it because he can’t lose her again. 

So they fall back into place. They share meals over notes and bring coffees each other’s way. They just don’t share the notes any more. They go to brunch on Sundays and sometimes he’ll sneak Noah extra whipped cream. 

She’ll bring victims to him occasionally, if she thinks they need help beyond the law and they can do anything.

He’s mortified over how many of these issues overlap - the poor, the indigent, the underemployed - all are more susceptible to violent crime merely because they are underprivileged. He’s always known this. Now he can attempt to attack the system. 

Don Quixote, tilting at windmills he imagines. At least Don Quixote had fun, right? 

He visits for dinner occasionally, plays dinosaurs with Noah. (His character is now named Spike, he’s very grumpy. He never did have much range as an actor), watches movies with him and Liv. It’s all very domestic. He’ll take it. 

He likes being Uncle Rafa. 

* * *

Fiona Masters swirls into his life on the back of a broomstick she boosted with turbo jets. She’s all of five foot. She probably weighs eight pounds including the badge, gun, and steel toed boots she wears. She’s scary as hell.

She’s a Sergeant in NYPD Homicide. He’d expect her to be a little more civil, a little more practiced. She’s a bat out of hell. She whisks into his office one day without preamble. She tells him that she needs him to do something, then proceeds to explain how he is going to do this and sets a deadline for it to be accomplished. He means to ask her just who in the fuck she is, but he can’t stop laughing. 

Her face scrunches up, her whole body tightens. She’s like one of those little teacup dogs that think they’re German Shepherds. Maybe she is a German Shepherd.

“I'm a constituent! I deserve results!”

He raises an eyebrow. She purses her lips, flares out a hip. Are people really intimidated by this act? 

“I'm not the mayor. If you need something please file a formal request.”

He motions to the door, where his assistant will gladly procure a form. She doesn’t budge. She has no clue he’s got years of experience with whatever she thinks she’s accomplishing here. She’s no match for Manhattan SVU. 

She’s no match for Olivia Benson when she’s mad. No one is a match for Olivia Benson. 

“I don't appreciate being laughed at.”

“I don't appreciate you barging in here without an appointment as if I owe you something already.”

He meets her gaze, about to legitimately tell her to leave his damn office already, but she’s smiling now. He’s confused. 

“I knew I would like you.”

Her whole demeanor is a little softer, she’s still got her arms crossed and her hip out, but her face is nicer. Maybe. 

“Excuse me?”

She uncrosses her arms, starts gesticulating about. She's just gone from one axis to the other in twelve seconds and expecting him to roll with it. This is why she's terrifying. It’s not the "I'd like to speak to your manager" routine.

“Usually I can get the new guys to do what I want with that act. I like you. You'll be good at this.”

“You like that I'm not kowtowing to your whims?”

He's not the kind of person people like immediately. He grows on you like a fungus. 

“Yes. It means you might actually get some shit done around here instead of using it as a stepping stone to your next political appointment.”

He's not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. He's sure the mayor will be out of office at some point but that's years away and he's thinking of consequence for others, not himself. What he does for himself is eat dinner with Liv and buy Noah books. Maybe that’s still doing things for other people. It’s possible he doesn’t care. 

“Probably not going to have one of those.”

She's unimpressed. She doesn't buy it. 

“You'd be surprised,” she declares, as if she's an old and wise sensei. “I heard you were a great ADA. I was sorry to hear how that all ended.”

There's something in there, something bordering on potential genuine human emotion that he appreciates. She's all bluster and bravado, but somewhere underneath she may be a person. Maybe they have that in common.

“Like I said, you're probably going to have to get used to me since I have no upward mobility.”

“And like I said - you'd be surprised.”

Fiona did not weasel her way in (only Liv could accomplish that). She pulled up a chair and refused to leave, staged a sit in with his life. She was a stray cat that kept rapping at his door until eventually he gave it some food. She's ridiculous. He thinks they're friends?

He doesn't need more friends. 

Liv and Noah are his life. His mother is his world. His work is his priority.

Except - he shouldn't close himself off so much. It's not healthy, it doesn't actually solve anything, it never actually works.

He decides to open himself up to it a little - connections and all that. _Malice toward none._

He didn't realize until much later that Fiona was actually Grendel’s mother.

* * *

 

When he offers to watch Noah one night because Liv can’t get away and Lucy has class she seems surprised. He’s never offered to do this before. Then again, he’s never been asked to do this. 

She tells him she can get Carisi or Rollins or even Fin to do it. He asks her if she doesn’t trust him. Her whole being shifts from exasperated and tired to pitying him. He thinks that’s worse. 

She says that of course she trusts him. She just didn’t think it was something he’d ever want to do. He shouldn’t feel obligated. He tells her if he didn’t want to he wouldn’t have offered. She warns him not to give Noah too much sugar, but they both know he’s going to buy the child at least one cookie - maybe a half dozen. He won’t let him eat all of them. 

He actually kind of hates being Uncle Rafa. He's never been a fan of children and the way Noah clings to his waist whenever he tries to leave kills him a little. The way he nearly throws a tantrum when he has to cut him off at three stories. Kids are awful. 

They'll tear a hole right through the parts you've tried to keep hidden.

It’s when Noah has a full scale meltdown one night that his heart almost cracks in two. He wants to know why he left for so long, if he’s going to do it again, if he did something bad like Grandma Sheila. 

Yes. Yes he did something bad like Grandma Sheila. He did what he thought was right. Didn’t care about the consequences. Didn’t think about who else he was hurting or realize that it was only his own pain that was clouding his judgment. 

But you can’t say that to a five year old. Not even one who’s been betrayed by nearly everyone in his life. Not even one as insightful and resilient as his amigo here. 

So he’s as honest as he can be. 

“I left because I needed to go help other little boys who don’t have your Mom or anyone else to help them. It just took a long time.” 

Noah stops wailing but his bottom lip is still trembling. His eyes are still red and glassy. 

“That’s your job? I asked Momma what your job is and she said you help the people she can’t.” 

Oh Liv. She can’t say things like that about him and expect him not to love her. That’s not fair. This isn’t fair. He knows she doesn’t quite understand his job but she could have just said he works in an office or something. 

Besides, she's always the one who tries to save everyone - Galahad searching for the Grail. She's the only one worthy of it. She's so much better than he'll ever be.

He's just some middle aged man who reads too many books. 

Now he’s red-eyed and his bottom lip is trembling. He’s been crying since Noah asked him why he left. 

“Yeah, something like that.” 

Noah looks up, puffs up his shoulders. It’s like he’s willing himself to be alright. He grabs Eddie from the floor, holds him to his chest. It’s a self-soothing method he wishes he could use himself right now. 

“Okay,’ he says, ending further discussion, “I love you Uncle Rafa.”

“I love you too Noah.”

So much for that scar tissue. He thought he'd learned how to swim. This is exactly why he stayed away so long and why he couldn’t bear to leave again. 

* * *

Fiona has recently become somewhat of a fixture in his life. When he’s not doing his job or visiting Mami or watching animated movies with Noah. When he’s not purposely avoiding discussions with Liv about his feelings. He’s not really sure where he finds the time to have a personal life and do his job. Maybe if you don’t hate both things it’s possible to have both. Maybe he’s always made excuses.

They have lunch every Wednesday at some trendy place near Columbus Circle. She’s told him the name several times. He doesn’t understand why it’s $10 for a plate of potato chips ( _ they’re gluten-free and organic, it’s health-conscious) _ . He doesn’t understand why they can’t go to a place closer to either of their jobs and why they even go to lunch together or when he agreed to do this. He still doesn’t understand why they’re friends.

He imagines she knows somebody who can do something and she also may have a crush on Trina the front of the house manager. He’d ask but she’s probably already told him and he doesn’t really want to listen. She’s worse than Carisi with the unnecessary jabbering. He’d never admit to either of them he thinks it’s charming.

He’s trying to find something to eat that isn’t on a bed of quinoa. She’s admonished him about the chicken tenders and salads before, but it’s not his fault they don’t have anything else with less than 45 ingredients or on a pomegranate reduction. Hipsters.

“So you are coming to this gala next Thursday with me and Eric?” she asks, the picture of innocence and grace. She’s up to something.

“What gala? Who is Eric?” 

He’s answering a text, not looking at her, but he can feel her roll her eyes.

“Eric is my boyfriend and the gala is the Women's League benefit. I have told you both of these things. Do you not listen when I talk?”

He never listens when she talks or he wouldn’t be as surprised about the boyfriend. She flirts with literally everyone but maybe Eric is okay with that. Maybe it’s just flirting and that’s not even his business.

He’s not going on a date with two other people. He’s been in that trap before. She wants to set him up with someone or she wants to set him up with her boyfriend.

As interested as he could be in either, he’s unavailable for whatever scheme she’s concocted. He looks up from his phone, gives her a look.

“I've told you that I don't. I'm not being a third wheel on your date with your boyfriend.”

She smiles, all grinch-like and conniving. He’s fallen into the trap. 

“Bring a date,” she offers, swirling her straw around whatever pink thing she ordered.

He glares in response. She’s clearly wanting him to bring a certain someone in particular. She’s going to have to say this out loud. He’s not asking.

“Bring Olivia.”

He continues glaring, tries to furrow his brow a little to indicate she should drop it. Olivia Benson barely has time to finish her job and make meals for Noah, she’s not going to a benefit for some charity.

Fiona doesn’t drop it, just smiles and tries to look encouraging. He has to actually respond now, he guesses.

“She hates those things.” He throws a hand up, gesturing to move on to other topics. He goes back to his phone, Carisi just sent another meme. Fiona is unperturbed.

“She'd do it for you,” he looks up at that, raises one eyebrow. Fiona continues jabbering, “Besides it's a good cause and she'll get to get all dolled up. She’ll love it.”

He has no idea what the cause is. He assumes it’s okay because while Fiona is a harpy with terrible opinions on fine dining ( _ We should go to that place that has deconstructed grilled cheese! - Isn't that just fondue?),  _ she is a genuine human being underneath all that. He can’t imagine her pushing this if it wasn’t important to her. 

He’s not sure the important part to her isn’t getting him to meet some influential CEO or Congressional representative. She’s still stuck on his imaginary political future that’s never going to happen.  

“Liv does not get all dolled up and she's certainly not going to do so for me.” 

She raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t believe Liv isn’t in love with him. She’s told him this no less than 400 times. Sometimes he listens when she says it. She’s never listened when he’s told her that it doesn’t matter. 

Life isn’t fair. It’s fine. 

“I beg to differ on both accounts,” she’s got a death knell brewing, he can see it in her eyes, the way her mouth is twitching, “I already put your names down.”

She's incorrigible really. 

He rolls his eyes, sighs as loudly as he used to at Kathleen and Grant’s weird bird conversations. 

“Fine. I’ll talk to her, but no guarantees.” 

He’s not sure she hears the second part. She must assume him asking is an automatic yes. Ah to be that convinced of your own charm. He used to be like that. Used to be so confident and uncaring, so sure of himself. 

He much prefers the colors. He much prefers the heart, even though he’s currently trying to bury it under bedrock. If he doesn’t then he’ll get lost thinking about what it means if Olivia says yes, or what it means if she says no. 

“Great,” Fiona practically squeals, “it's $5000 a plate.”

The laugh bubbles up underneath him before he’s conscious of it. Fiona is surprising as hell. That’s probably half the reason he hangs out with her. Her real master plan makes so much sense. 

“This was all just some plan to get $10K out of me?”

She shrugs, sips on her pink drink. 

“Something like that. You're getting soft. It wasn’t even difficult to convince you.” 

She’s probably right, he’s been spending too much time with Elsa and Anna and Olaf after work. Spike the Stegosaurus isn’t even all that grumpy any more. Sometimes he allows himself to think about having a family one day, even though it’s probably too late for that, much to Lucia Barba’s chagrin. 

Sometimes he allows himself to play out fantasies that will never happen. Like Liv actually coming to this dumb gala in something other than a work outfit, it meaning that she’s ready, it meaning that she loves him back. 

Sometimes he allows himself to play out his real wish - that her world could ever revolve around him too, that he already has a family. 

“Forgive me for being out of practice with the diabolical, Fi.”  

She grins, now she’s become the Cheshire Cat. This is just wonderful. He’s only half sarcastic. 

“But I’m a lovable Diablo, though.” 

She’s definitely right about that one. He thinks Fiona, in spite of her ramblings about being a kingmaker, is honestly the one with the political future. She just tricked him into ten grand for a charity he doesn't even know and he's not even that mad about it. 

It only has a little to do with Liv. Only has everything to do with Liv. Fiona knows that very well. 

He's got to stop this fantasy that one day she's going to change her mind. It's pathetic really. She doesn't owe him. He should move on. Let Fiona set him up with someone else. She’ll create a political dynasty out of it. She knows everyone.

Maybe one day he'll get over it, over her, over fantasies straight out of romance novels and wet dreams that would put puberty to shame. He doesn't actually want to.

He’s never going to want to. 


	3. Love’s disgusting, love’s insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia goes to the gala. Rafael makes an assumption. Drama ensues.

 It was easier to talk Liv into going to the gala than he ever dared to imagine. Sure, he gave a long, impassioned speech where he rambled about her tireless crusade for victim's rights. Then followed it up with an equally long interlude about how he was just going to collapse on the ground if he had to deal with all those people without her there.

Her response was just to smile at him and ask about dress code and time.

She also griped about not being a member of his yacht club and not being able to afford $5000. He made up some bullshit about her being just the kind of advocate they were looking for so the door fee was waived.

He's not sure she bought it. He's not that good at lying, really, for a lawyer. Honestly he's just not that great at lying to her. Maybe that's a good thing. He's not even that great about lying to himself and her about his feelings. 

He was able to come up with the victim's rights and needing her there lines because he actually believed those. They were actually true statements.

He left out the part about Fiona having some plot rivaling Guy Fawkes. He left out the part where she was actually technically supposed to be his date.

Technically he was hoping she was his actual date.

He thinks she must just want him to go away and stop talking sometimes. She may just be humoring him, she may just feel sorry for him. Then again, she's had that opportunity for a long time and never taken the option.

He thought about asking her when she thought she was going to get off work. He thought about picking her up, bringing her flowers, taking a limo to the ballroom.  

Because this is 1987 and he’s taking her to prom. His tux certainly fits him better now.

He thinks about telling her again. But - even though she’s letting him in a little more every day, even though she knows things about him no one else ever will - they’re both happy.

They’re both so happy he can’t destroy it. He’s told her before. She knows.

Even though he feels some kind of way every time he catches her smile across a room. Even though he has to will his heart back out of his throat when he catches her eyes. Even though his world spins in irregular orbit when she laughs. He can’t tell her again. He can’t have her let him down gently. He can’t have her say it, what he knows is true, not out loud. ( _Don’t say it)_

Instead he’s agreed to meet her here. He’s counting minutes, trying to bide his time hobnobbing.

Fiona’s already here, introducing him to whoever the fuck really. He doesn’t understand why she’s a cop, how she was ever a homicide detective. She’s clearly more suited to party plan and thinks she’s his campaign manager.

Maybe she’s got her own sense of duty.

When Olivia walks in the room his world tilts off it's axis into space. He thinks, maybe, possibly, finally it's time. She's actually ready. She’ll accept him, all his faults and ramblings and scars. Him - a loudmouthed sassy asshole with too many ties.  

He's actually ready. Whole and healed and prepared to accept happiness.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be fully healed, but he’s ready to accept her. He’s ready for Liv and Noah and the whole package.

He doesn’t know what she’s waiting for over there, picking at her phone, grasping at champagne glasses as if they’re her gun. Maybe she’s working up the courage to tell him.

Fiona grabs his shoulder, leans in, gestures toward the corner where Liv is frozen still. 

“Go over there.”

He’s not toeing over this line, he’s staying in place. He already crossed the Rubicon months ago. Years ago, really.

“She's busy.”

Fiona’s eye flare could rival one of the judges trying to be nice on those singing competitions. She looks like she’s getting flambéd a little on the inside, like she’s trying to resist stomping her foot. 

“Oh my God will you just tell her how you feel already?”

He has. Doesn’t she listen to what he says? Probably not. They don’t really listen to each other at all. Their friendship mostly consists of distracted monologues and sniping.

Liv will come over when she’s ready. If that ever happens.  

“She's probably dealing with a case.”

Fiona’s not allowing him to dispel her, she never does.

“So you've stopped trying to deny this? I see we've made progress in the ongoing project that is relieving your emotional baggage.”

Has he ever actually denied his feelings though? Maybe buried them, maybe encased them in a locked box and dropped them in the deep end of the ocean. But denied them? He couldn’t even begin to. He’s always been four hundred kinds of obvious.

He doesn’t want to talk about this with Fiona. Not now. Not today. Not ever really.

“Can you drop it?”

Fiona only drops things that don’t matter to her and this - apparently, for some reason, matters to her.

“No. She looks gorgeous, you look gorgeous. I want pictures of this.”

She tries to physically push him toward the corner. She’s surprisingly strong for someone the size of a poodle. He thrusts an arm back. Meets her eyes. Shakes his head.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Yes, I am, but so are you.”

He tries not to notice the dress. It’s not a work outfit she’s re-purposed.

It’s an emerald green swooping number that hugs every inch of her in just the right way. She does look gorgeous. She's always gorgeous.

Maybe his imaginary date is a real date. You don’t wear a dress like that for a party you don’t want to go to - unless you’ve got someone to impress. And Liv doesn’t care about impressing the bigwigs at this gala. Liv doesn’t care about impressing him though really. She does care about getting one over on him though.

Well - bang up job Benson.

She's putting forth the effort because he asked her to. It moves him in places he's tried to keep buried.

He can’t stare though. That’s impolite, impolitic, the behavior of a man who doesn’t feel the need to ask.

She’ll come over eventually. They’ll have a grand time, meet Fiona’s boyfriend. He’s beginning to worry whatever his name is (Ethan? Evan?) is never coming. They’ll swap old stories, squabble like old times, maybe continue into old age, continue into 85.

They’ll share a cab or an Uber and he’ll ask her if she’s ready. If she’s not he’ll make sure she knows he’ll wait. They’ll say goodnight to Noah, read him a story ( _the moose one Rafa! Pretty please!_ ), hope he falls asleep with just one, read him two more.

He’ll kiss her goodnight. Warm and sweet and easy and promising. He’ll ask her if he can make dinner for her Wednesday because he knows that’s Noah’s baseball night. She’ll say yes. They’ll both know it’s a date.

Then the rest of his life will begin.  

There’s an alternate fantasy in which he takes her home, they share that bottle of wine, one thing leads to another. Maybe Noah’s with Lucy or Rollins or whoever else watches him these days, so he feels comfortable kissing her. Feels comfortable making out with her on the couch and peeling that dress off her.

Maybe there’s an another one in which he fucks her against the wall in the bathroom right here, where neither of them undress anything.

Yeah. He thought he'd been getting better about those ones, but maybe it’s been a little too long. Maybe she’s always going to drive him a little bit crazy.

Except - now she’s left and he’s not sure how he distracted himself long enough with discussing the latest tinder box issue with the First Deputy Mayor to miss it.

He texts her. He's flirting. She's ribbing him about children’s movies. It feels - it feels almost like parts of this don’t have to be a fantasy. It almost feels like she really is inviting him into her heart, her life, her family. Maybe like he already is family. Only this time a little more romantic than before.

He's floating.

It’s not until she walks in with Peter Stone that he stumbles back to earth, burns his fingers upon re-entry.

He's heard rumors about her and Stone - murmurs about how close she gets with her ADA's, about how she chews them up and spits them out. He only ever gets these in passing. People know better than to insult her around him. They probably pity him for how far gone he really is.

They know better than to parade their sexist bullshit like that.

Except - now that he thinks about it - there's an ease between them. No tension or anger. No brimming, bubbling antipathy. She seems annoyed with him sometimes, but in a half-hearted way there's no real effort behind. He seems fascinated by her.

Maybe they _are_ dating.

Maybe it came up in a gradual sort of way after he was nice with Noah. Maybe one day he smiled and she smiled and he took her on a walk in the park and a baseball game and they ate hot dogs like normal people. Maybe he doesn't make references to things she doesn't understand or try to get her to see musicals about Russia. Maybe she just wanted support.

Well fuck this.

He'd been preparing for it - the day she found some other asshole. The day she was finally happy. He’d dealt with this before. He should be used to it. He had told himself he was happy to give her away at her wedding to someone else. As long as she was happy he didn't have to be.

Star-crossed bullshit really.

He didn't expect it to feel like his heart was slowly being scooped out with a melon baller, that his stomach was trying to crawl up into his chest. It wasn't that she didn't like lawyers or people she worked with. She well and truly just didn't love him. Never would. He’s always sort of known that.

He can't be staring at her like this. Not when she's made it so clear she's not interested. Not when looking at her leads to thoughts of things that will never be.

Not when her boyfriend is right here.

The get-up isn’t for him. She's only doing him a favor because he just wouldn’t stop talking. Stone was free at the last minute and that's why she came back in.

He's not the reason she's been so happy. She's at peace because of Peter.

He's doing some kind of mental gymnastics to get this to make sense to himself, but she seems so pissed to be sitting next to him he can't help the spiral. He tries not to let it hurt, tries to be the supportive best friend shoulder to cry on, but her impression of a wet blanket lances straight through his scar tissue. His heart rattles in the box he’d tried to bury at the bottom of the sea.

She's happy without him. Could take or leave him, really.

Peter tries to be charming, Fiona tries to be friendly. He tries to act like he's just a political appointee at a networking event. Attempts to paste on a fake personality to help himself ignore the blood pooling where his heart used to beat.

Olivia attempts to drown herself in alcohol. It's impossible not to notice - that it's so unbearable to be near him in public she can't even pretend without it. She didn't have to be so cruel. She could have just said no.

She could have just told him. He thought she trusted him. She said she trusted him.

With Noah. Not with her heart.

He's not doing this.

He lashes out, she lashes back. Fiona fucks it up by trying to be funny.

He hates that he can be this way. Sometimes when he snaps like this he's not even fully conscious. Sometimes it just spills out, boils over. You can never clean up all the water you’ve spilled when that happens, only some. Some droplets will always be left - some of you is bound to get burned. Sometimes it's your heart. 

Before he knows it she's out of her seat and he's following her. He feels pathetic and stupid and like a sad puppy. He's losing her.

Again.

He'd say sorry, he'd apologize, but he's not actually sorry. He's never been great at lying to her. So he tells her to say good night to Noah for him, tries not to notice when she looks back at him before she's out of the door.

He probably wouldn't have let her say no without asking why, without pushing her too far. It would have lead to some knock down drag out fight in either of their offices. He knows that's why she didn't say no. She still could have told him she was waiting for Peter.

Because that would have gone over so well. It didn’t almost lead to the end of their friendship the last time or anything.

Couldn't she have at least not done it this way, so public and far removed? He knows he overreacted last time but he thought they were better friends than that.

He thought - well, he should know not to get his hopes up.

Peter begs off, goes halfway across the room, makes connections. He barely looked concerned about the outburst. He doesn’t even follow her. He’s probably used to it, probably knew not to ask her to these things, but figured might as well go too since her friend talked her into it.

He knows to let her be.

He sits back down, resists the overwhelming urge to down a bottle of scotch in one gulp.

He can feel Fiona shaking her head next to him. He knows. She started this anyway. He’s over her and her dumb plots. Through with his life being collateral damage to her flights of fancy.

“Thanks for that Fi.”

She turns her head, scoffs. She’s borderline pissed. Bravura, bravado, all Fiona Masters.

“You were the one being an asshole.”

He closes his eyes, resists the urge to snap at her now too. He’s not going to ruin all his friendships in one day, much as he wants to. Mostly just decides to be sassy.

“Well apparently she's dating Peter.”

“Well apparently you're a moron.”

She huffs off in a lather. He’d apologize but he can't begin to care. He’s sorry Liv was mean. That was unexpected, but Fiona’s an adult (or maybe not really even human), she can take it. 

Peter comes back. He spends the rest of the night reminding himself to be nice. To make a professional connection. To forgo malice and attempt to heal his wounds. Do good work. Being nice will help him do good work.

It was always too hard with him and Liv. He pressed her too far. She pushed all his buttons. He never gave in unless he really wanted. Maybe by the end he gave in a little too much. He'd always thought that was half the fun.

It's not like they can't be friends. It's not like he's going to shut out Noah.

He's always going to be Uncle Rafa. Only Uncle Rafa. He's going to need a few days to put his heart back into place, to will it to start beating normally again. To trap it back behind all the scar tissue and dirt.

Fuck her for doing this to him again

But really fuck him for being so obtuse.

He's allowed to feel some malice toward her for this. For getting his hopes up, for ruining her career, for not even saying no.

Then again - she can't help her feelings. He can't help his.  

Joyce was right - love hurts.

He wishes he could get to charity, be the bigger person. He thought he'd reached the summit for a second there. Sometimes when you tumble down a mountain it's okay to lick your own wounds.

Fuck Fiona for slithering out of the bowels of Hell and setting all of this in motion. Maybe her plot was full of gunpowder and treason. Maybe he’ll have her killed for it anyway.  

* * *

 

He decides to take the completely mature route of avoiding his best friend for at least the time it takes to remember where his heart really goes in his chest. He was hoping it would be a few days. At least, that’s the amount of time she gives him before she texts some crap about Dominick Carisi.

Is she really trying to act like nothing happened?

He of course sees it the minute she texts him, but he can wait a bit to respond. He’s not going to avoid her completely. There’s Noah to think about and he’s honestly kind of incapable of it.

It’s just - if he doesn’t give himself time then he’s going to blow up at her and say some shit he doesn’t want to. Let some feelings leak out all over the floor, and they both know how unwanted that would be.  

So he tells her to leave Carisi alone.

He thinks that will work, but he should know better. That kicks off a barrage of invites and joke texts and weird links to political articles he knows she didn’t actually read. He suspects she’s trying to get him to talk, he gets it, but she’s got to let him be for four seconds.

It’s when he tells her that he can’t go to brunch on Sunday that she backs off. He knows it won’t last for too long but it gives him a chance to breathe, figure out just what he’s going to make up to say later.

* * *

 

Liv is relentless, but Fiona is indefatigable. He’s trying to avoid her as well. He’s told her he’s ditching the trendy place because he swears last week they tried to give him Rickets ( _you can’t get Rickets from food. Are you a child?)._ He’s forgone the whole Wednesday lunch thing anyway, in favor of a hot dog in Central Park.

It’s not glamorous or “health-conscious” or organic gluten free pastiche but it’s very New York. It also might be quite touristy, but his heart is broken and he deserves a bit of a wallow before he lets one of them corner him about this.

Rafael Barba and strong, independent women. He could go run himself into a tree.

Someone sits down next to him. It’s Lizzie Borden herself. He doesn’t even want to know how she found him here. She probably has a lojack on his phone, placed a favor with her friend Hannah in the FBI on some homeland security investigation. Maybe she bribed Facebook for all his personal information.

Maybe she’s actually a trained detective and just knows what she’s doing.

He glares at her. Blinks once, continues glaring. She’s wearing a hot pink double-breasted wool trench coat. It’s 80 degrees and sunny. He’s not even going to ask _(Apparently they have the 80s in the ring of Hell Dante assigned her to)_. He turns back ahead.

As usual there is no preamble or discussion when she wants to get a point across. Maybe that’s a thing with the NYPD. Maybe it’s a thing with strong, independent women who he kind of sort of likes.

Maybe her and Liv just have that in common.

“You know she was wearing that dress for you right?”

She was wearing that dress for Peter, or to look nice, or whatever. He doesn’t want to think about that dress right now.

“She was wearing a dress to look nice because I told her it was formal.”

She clenches her jaw, responds out of the side of her mouth.  

“Oh. My. God. Do I have to spell things out for you?”

Conversation #402: Olivia Benson is not in love with Rafael Barba. He told her on a blisteringly cold February day after he narrowly avoided going to jail for the rest of his life. Then he whisked out of her life to try and find himself and he’s never going to bring it up again because getting his hopes up only leads to disaster.

“Fiona please. She is not interested.”

Her mouth is a straight line, the thumb and forefinger of her left hand are pressed together as she shakes it in his face.

“She wore a green dress to match your green eyes. Have you met a human woman?”

He laughs at her, he’s always laughing at her. Why is she so damn invested in this?

“Well I'm friends with you and I'm pretty sure you're a demon so no.”

“Will you just tell her already?”

He’s not getting into this today. He’s not getting into this ever.

“She knows. She just doesn’t want me. I’ve told you that it’s fine.”

She presses her hand to her forehead, rattles her face around for a few seconds. That genuine human pops out, maybe the demon she’s possessed by let her out.

“I know that you can't see the way she looks at you, but trust me, she's completely in love. I don't understand this denial.”

She’s never going to understand. Everyone loves her. Heck he likes her and he’s mostly confused by her existence. She’s a whole mess of a person but she’s charming and fun and she’s probably never actually taken no for an answer in her life.

“It's too late. I left. Now she’s with Peter.”

She breathes deeply, holds it for a few seconds, then releases slowly through her nose.

“I swear to you that if she was dating him, which she is definitely not, she'd drop that like a wet sponge if she knew how you felt.”

He looks up at the sky, willing whatever God actually still gives a shit to relieve him of this.

“She knows.”

“Have you told her?”

Yes. Yes he has told her. In metaphor and action and petty small sacrifices but he's told her. She must know. He's always been quite obvious.

“Can we drop this today?”

 He's not even going to attempt to ask her to drop it forever. She's going to bring this up periodically for the rest of the time she decides to inhabit this realm of being.

 “Can you just tell her? Use your words. At least stop shutting her out please. You look like Grumpy Cat.”

Maybe she's a little bit right. He needs to tell Olivia why he's so pissed. He needs to find the words to explain that he's not mad that she's dating somebody or that she's dating an ADA or really that's she's not dating him. (Except he's actually quite pissed about all of these things.)

It's really that she didn't tell him about any of it.

You know, like he told her about resigning or leaving or that it was a date.

It's that she's not dating him - again. It's that she can't tell him - again. It's that she doesn't actually fucking trust him.

He always was a bit of a malcontent. Maybe he's fine being Grumpy Cat.

Maybe he's fine just rolling through life fighting unwinnable fights and attempting to fix unrightable wrongs. Maybe he's fine with his fantasies and delusions of grandeur. His fault for hoping Dulcinea was real, honestly. 


	4. A humiliating business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafael finds out he's made a terrible miscalculation (or multiple miscalculations, give or take a few thousand). He still isn't sure how he's supposed to fix it.

The next day he goes to Forlini’s to continue his wallow wagon sponsored by the New York City Tourism Board. He has plans to get a cheese plate and pretend he’s got a case to talk with Liv about.

He knows this isn’t healthy. He knows this will only make him sad about the general state of affairs. It doesn’t stop him from doing it. 

Of course Peter is there. Of course he has no fucking idea that he has no interest in talking to him. 

_ Be nice. _ Malice toward none. Charity for all. Being nice to Peter is better for everyone.

So he goes over to Stone’s booth, prepared to be peppered with questions, given half-assed platitudes about the law being the law and justice being blind. 

He’s promptly garotted with an old fishing line. 

Liv is here. With him. In their place. 

He doesn’t know how he’s managing to continue a conversation with this man. He doesn’t know how he’s able to speak. He’s apparently misinterpreted everything about this relationship. Are the pieces left of your heart really allowed to ache like this? Even once they’re out of your chest?

She looks a little sheepish and surprised when he catches her eyes. She doesn’t even give a shit. He’s only Noah’s babysitter and not even a good one at that. 

He tells Peter he has a meeting to go to, manages to politely excuse himself. He’s not sure Stone realizes what just happened. He’s not sure Liv even cared it was their place. 

He manages to avoid her for a whole week after that. He doesn’t even care that he hasn’t responded to one text or made one coffee visit. She clearly doesn’t care enough about his feelings not to have a fucking date at Forlini’s.

* * *

 

She finally corners him at the precinct. He really should have timed that better but he was also trying to pretend he didn’t know her entire schedule. She asks him for help on a case that they both know she doesn’t need. 

Fuck politeness - but then -  that would be a scene and he can’t afford one of those. 

So he goes to her office, shuts the door behind him, makes a good impression of a teenager being called to a family meeting. It takes a good few seconds before he asks what’s really going on. 

She just comes right out and asks it - why he’s avoiding her. As if she doesn’t even know. 

He tries to move on but she keeps pushing. Then she uses Noah against him - which isn’t fair and they both know it. He says she was being rude and then the gloves come off. 

They gripe about Peter. They argue over the fact that he dared to ask her to spend some time with him outside the house or the office. They spar over everything, things that don’t even make that much sense. 

It’s amazing. He’s on fire really. 

It shouldn’t feel good. He hates that he loves this - this back and forth, this verbal tennis match. He knows it's going to end with his heart on the floor. He knows he's going to say something awful soon because he just can't fucking help himself when it's like this. 

He knows her too well. She knows him too well. This isn’t even squabbling, this is, it’s an actual fight. He should calm down, pull up his pants, paste the pieces of his heart back together, retreat back below the ocean of scar tissue to protect himself. He can’t though. 

She should be called out for doing stupid shit like dating an ADA. No one else is going to. 

Doesn't she know? If it comes out that she’s dating Stone then everything they’ve done, every case they've tried, is going to be called into question. Didn't she learn her lesson last time she got involved with some guy she worked with? She's got no right to be mad at him when she's ruining her career.

It’s when she yells something about Fiona being his girlfriend that he has to stop. 

What in the fuck was she talking about? She called Fiona his girlfriend. Fiona, who is a nightmare of Lovecraftian proportion. She’s so incredibly not his type it's ludicrous.

As if he had a type other than Olivia Benson. 

Besides, what right would she have to question his not telling her if that was true? She brought her dumb blonde boyfriend to his event. 

_ (Fiona’s event. Peter’s not that dumb. He didn’t tell her it was a date) _

He was never going to be able to just be supportive. He tries. He offers hugs and encouragement but he's still the same person. 

Just because he's got colors now doesn't mean he can sit by while she trades him in for the younger, whiter, taller, better model. 

He basically says as much. He basically throws his cards on the table, let's her know she's being a fucking dumbass. He almost yells the thing he really wants to say, almost fries his vocal chords stopping himself.

_ (If you're going to be this cruel at least do me the courtesy of acknowledging what you're doing.) _

If she was going to date an ADA she could have warned him. If she’s going to ruin her career and live in some fantasy land where she can skate by all of the problems that will break open - she can’t expect him to watch. 

If she’s going to be in love with someone else she can’t insist he be happy about it.  If she was going to turn his heart into a fillet, she didn’t have to cook it right in front of him. She didn’t have to stomp all over it in public. 

But then she delivers a blow to all his senses.

_ “If you're going to ruin yours to date some cop I don't understand why the hell it isn't me.” _

What in the pluperfect fuck was she talking about? 

Oh. 

She's not being cruel. She thinks he's dating her polar opposite. She thinks he's the one being cruel. 

Sweet, dear, beautiful, deluded Olivia.

Didn't she know? Hadn’t he told her? Hadn’t he laid his heart out on the courthouse steps before he said goodbye? He guesses he never actually said the words but she must know. Everybody does. Isn't she a fucking detective?

He's about to tell her - what he's going to start with he's not sure.

_ (I'm not dating Fiona. I love you. I've always loved you. I always will. Get used to it.) _

Then Rollins walks in and the spell breaks. He's reminded it's not his place to tell her this. She'll never be his. 

Fucking Peter gets everything, doesn't even have to try. He's not even answering his phone for a case and they're both giving him a pass for it? Who is this person? 

He tells them to call the Executive ADA. They seem hesitant, like it would hurt Stone’s feelings. It’s not like they ever gave him a pass for reneging on his duties. It's not like he ever didn't answer his phone. 

He realizes he's probably lashing out a bit because she cares more about some professional embarrassment than her best friend's fucking feelings. 

Hell yes they should call Barnett and it's not even about feelings.

She doesn't actually know about his feelings. He's just been -- assuming she knew.

Of course she's going to shut him out. Of course she's pissed at him, but he's not doing this. He needs to make sure she at least knows Fiona is the devil.

He may leave out the part where he's so in love with her he can hardly see straight. He's got years of practice with that, what's thirty or so more?

They both know how this game is going to go - she'll pretend she's too busy to take calls, attempt to avoid his texts until something is particularly funny, make like she's not drinking the coffee. Then he'll corner her one day and make them talk. It's clockwork, it's knowing your opponent, it's all so predictable he can barely stand it.

There's probably a baseball metaphor in there Peter Stone would be better at. 

Of course he would be. Of course Peter Stone gets the life he wants.

It's not Peter’s fault he could never tell anyone he wanted it. It's his fault he expected her to understand a metaphor he hadn't bothered to explain. 

It's not her fault she'll never love him back. It's not her fault he can't get that through his thick fucking skull.

His Dulcinea. His Galahad. He'll never be worthy.

Maybe it's just that he sometimes forgets to breathe when he looks at her. Maybe that's why he keeps lashing out. Maybe he's going to have to tell her so she understands. 

He probably never will. Charity for all, Raf. 

* * *

He allows Fiona to talk him into going to the trendy place again. He really doesn’t want to but he needs to get himself out of this rut. He even orders something with kale in it.

She gives him a face like there’s something she’s genuinely worried about. He thinks it’s the kale. It isn’t.

He relents and explains what happened with Liv. The laugh that escapes her mouth when he tells her she thought they were dating could rival a banshee. It’s deeply unsettling. 

She wants to know when he’s going to fix that. He tells her he’s been trying, he’s finally going to have to give up the ghost and actually use the words. He just doesn’t really think it’s fair to Peter. Or fair to Olivia really. But - it's more fair than her not knowing why he's been snippier than usual.

She rolls her eyes, he can feel the thought in her head ( _ Fuck that guy).  _ She tells him he has to at least fix their friendship or she is done with him. 

Oh if wishing made it so. 

He tells her that this isn’t a Jane Austen novel. She isn’t Emma Wodehouse. She can’t just make people be in love because it works for her whims that day. She just smiles at him. She’s evil, really. 

He’s taken to leaving coffees on Liv’s desk, since she won’t answer her phone. He’s going to have to come up with an actual plan to talk to her, maybe try the same one she did. She’s not going to fall for the not causing a scene bent. She's got no problem making a scene. Maybe he kind of wants one. 

He’s thought about cornering her at brunch, but that’s not really a conversation to have when Noah is around. 

He’ll come up with something. 

* * *

He's at Forlini’s, attempting to convince Liv to join him. He knows it's futile but he's trying. He's come up with another plan but he doesn't actually want to wait.

Peter Stone’s cartoon ass sidles in next to him at the bar.

“I've been told that's your seat. Nice to see you actually in it.”

He orders a Coors Light in a bottle. He’s really that boring. He really doesn’t understand what Liv sees in this guy but he guesses he’s nice. As bland as unflavored wheat thins, but nice. 

“Is it now?”

He’s not sure he can be as nice today. He knows it’s not Stone’s fault, but he’s got a thing about him and her in Forlini’s. It kind of sets him off. 

“Here I was hoping we might be able to let bygones be bygones and bury the hatchet.”

“Possibly let sleeping dogs lie? How many metaphors are you attempting to mix today?”

Peter doesn’t take the bait, just looks a little sideways, smirks slightly.

“You're funny. I can see why she likes you.”

So they are going to have to talk about Liv. They might get to actual malice today. 

“Not much these days but it happens.”

“If you don't mind my asking, what did you do?”

Didn’t she tell him? Don’t they have conversations? Weren’t they just here in Forlini’s gabbing away? Maybe he wants to know from his perspective. Maybe he’s playing out some strange interrogation scene to suss out whatever their relationship actually is. It’s really not that complicated. 

He’s in love with her but she’s not in love with him so they decided to be best friends instead.

He'd been stupid and allowed himself to get lost in fantasies, only to get mad at her for them. He walked away and then got angry when she'd been the one to move on. Maybe he's really mad that she can ride off into the sunset without him while he's still stuck. Maybe he's mostly mad that he tried and couldn't move. Maybe he's actually mad that he didn't actually try.

Maybe it's a little bit complicated.

“What didn’t I do really,” he sighs, “I'm guessing something to do with running away for six months or snapping at her at the gala.”

Imaginarily dating the devil incarnate, but she doesn’t know that it’s imaginary. 

“You seemed pretty angry with her the other day.”

“I didn't expect her here.”

Stone looks contemplative, like he’s trying to decide if he wants to say what’s in his mind. He goes for it. 

“You didn't expect me here. This is your place, I get that. They just have best burgers in the city.”

“It's fine, really, just, sometimes I get nostalgic.”

He does mean that. It’s really not his fault. He’ll be okay eventually. Maybe this guy is fine, he’s just kind of an automaton and she can do better. He’s not really sure who’s ever going to be good enough for her, though honestly. 

Peter looks at him, puts his hand on his shoulder, smiles. 

“Feel free to come by, sit, swap old stories. I could use the company.”

Is he? Did he just? Isn’t he dating Olivia? He’s been out of the game for a bit, but he doesn’t think he’s missing this cue. He also didn’t think his sense of this was that broken. 

Time to just call it out. 

“You really do just try to flirt with everyone to get what you want, don't you?”

He shrugs in response. 

"Better than snapping at everyone because I can't figure out how to tell my best friend I'm in love with her.”

Of course he knows. Everyone knows. This is probably why he’s being so nice to him.

“Why counselor, that was almost biting. You may just survive this job.”

He’s trying for a fight now. He’s really over this whole game, but Stone just won’t play. It’s quite unnerving.

“You know, she's the only person who doesn't know you’re in love with her but I guess you have that in common.”

“What?”

He’s honestly not really following what the man is trying to do here. He’s not going to up and admit to the man he's wildly, madly in love with his girlfriend. Even Quixote would run away from that giant mess.

“Nevermind, I should stay out of this,” Peter sighs, takes a swig of his beer. “Lieutenant Benson already hates me enough as it is.”

**Lieutenant Benson?** She **hates** him? _But_ -

“What? I thought you were dating her.”

“Now that is hilarious,” he states, no laugh. Maybe he is a robot, “and unprofessional.”

Always with the black and white. He’ll learn. One day. 

He can’t be concerned with that though because, well, he just learned he kind of fucked up a whole lot. He yelled at his best friend for dating a guy she wasn’t dating. She yelled at him for dating a mythological beast he never even thought about that way. 

He’s going to have to fix this. He’s going to have to use his words. Of course she wasn’t dating Stone. She’s too smart to do that to herself again. She at least would have told him, right? 

He’s really going to have to tell her now. He’s out of excuses. 

He’s trying to forget that part, in her office, when she implied he should have been dating her. He’s got another dumb fantasy brewing that it means just exactly what he wants it to. That she does want him, that she was jealous, but Olivia would never be jealous. What would she have to be jealous about? 

Maybe she didn’t understand what he had been trying to say when he told her she turned his world upside down. Maybe she really didn’t remember it. Maybe she was so consumed with anger and sadness and guilt she couldn’t actually think straight. 

No. That was him. 

She’s going to let him down gently, she’s going to give him some look of pity and be a tiny bit mad he actually said it out loud. Just because she didn’t understand he already told her in metaphor doesn’t mean she doesn’t really know it. That’s probably what that cop comment actually meant. Not that she loves him - that he shouldn’t rub in her face what she doesn’t feel. 

He’s got his plan, he’s working towards it. He’s just - if he lets her reject him outright he’s not sure he can come back from it this time. 

* * *

Fiona scrambles her way into his office, lets him know that Olivia is not dating Peter. She has confirmed this, through very high placed sources in the NYPD. He suspects these sources are Rollins and Carisi but he’s honestly so happy he doesn’t care. He already knew this. He’s not telling Fiona this.

It shouldn't make him this happy. It doesn’t change anything besides confirming he’s been a presumptive dick piece really. 

He tells her to go back to work but she just sits down across from him. She wants to know his plan for fixing this. He tells her he’s planning on getting Noah and Lucy tickets for Frozen and then having Lucy let him in.

She’s not sure she knows Frozen ( _ Is that the one with that godawful song?) _ , but she likes the idea of him doing this at her place. Gives her less way to get out of it. She’s a little worried he’s going to get shot but says that’s just the price he may have to pay. Again, she’s a demon.

It’s when he tells her his plan to cook that she’s unimpressed. She thinks that sounds complicated, he should just get some take out and flowers.

He’s doing this as a gesture.

She still tells him he’s making this overly complex, all he has to do is yell  _ I love you  _ across the precinct and then she’s trapped.

Oh, if wishing made it so.

* * *

When he’d offered Lucy the tickets she seemed excited. He thought it was because of the show, but when she didn’t even seem concerned about his request not to tell Liv where she got them he was a bit miffed. She tells him she'll be happy to take Noah overnight, it being on a Friday and all.

He says it isn't like that, he just needs to talk to Liv. She doesn't really seem to believe him. Sure, he'd love for things to turn out that way but that's phenomenally presumptuous and it's really not his place to ask.

When he comes over to give her the tickets and be let in she makes eyes at his grocery sacks.

“You're cooking for her but you don't expect it to lead anywhere?”

He plops down the bags on the counter, going to respond something suitably witty, but then Noah sees him. He hugs him and wants him to come with but he tells him maybe next time. This is for him and Lucy.

“Okay Uncle Rafa I love you,” he beams. Lucy looks surprised.

He tells Noah he loves him too, to have a good time, asks Lucy to send him pictures.

She texts him from what he assumes is the cab ride.

_ [He must really like you. He's never told me he loves me] _

_ [I'm new and shiny and play dinosaurs.] _

_ [You tell yourself that.] _

Is Lucy actually sassy? Good for her. He looks down and sees another text from her, complete with starburst and heart emojis as well as thumbs up symbols. Youths.

_ [Good luck! Though I'm sure you don't need it. :D] _

He writes his thanks, but he can't imagine that he doesn't need it. He thinks about starting the spaghetti, but he realizes he's not sure when Liv will be back. He goes to text her, but realizes halfway through typing that he shouldn't reveal his plan and she wouldn't respond anyway.

He makes a batch of noodles. Then he realizes that was probably a terrible idea because everything will get cold and promptly throws them away. Maybe Fiona was right, maybe he should have just brought flowers and take out.

Then he would have obsessed over what kind of flowers and what they meant. Even though she wouldn't care he would know. The take out would have also gotten cold and spaghetti is not that hard. It shouldn't be anyway.

Maybe it's not when you're also not panicking. He’s really not sure the etiquette for telling your best friend you fucked up and that you love her and it's okay that she doesn't feel it too.

He decides to start another batch (he might be able to make scrambled eggs if he runs out of ingredients). The noodles have been in the pot for a bit when he hears the door unlatch.

Here it is - face the music, pay the Piper, stab himself in ritual sacrifice to the empire.

She's sussed out his plan immediately. At least the getting Noah and Lucy out of the house to confront her part. He's so distracted by her being here he genuinely forgets how long those noodles were cooking. How long were you supposed to leave them in there?

Crap. It's probably better to have underdone noodles than overdone ones, right? You don't want them sticking to the pot?

They come out no problem. He thinks they might be raw. It doesn't matter, it's a gesture right? He's not like, trying to woo her or anything, just doing something for his friend. Attempting to apologize, sort of.

He's lucky she's taking off her shoes, not paying attention, otherwise she'd see the low boil simmering terror in his face. He's better than this. He never could fucking follow directions.

She’s trying to needle him about Fiona but it’s not time for that yet, they need to eat. Hopefully it doesn’t taste like death warmed over. It’s not until he’s putting the plates on the table that he remembers he was warming garlic bread.

He darts to the kitchen. Luckily that isn't burnt, he's not sure how that happened. He may have just turned on the oven light, he doesn't even remember.

This was a terrible idea. He should have taken Fiona's suggestion and just yelled it across a room. He's never admitting to that valkyrie she was right.

Breathe. It's Liv. She'll just gently rib him about this. It'll be fine.

If he doesn't spontaneously combust first.

He takes a bite, it’s awful. Maybe she won’t notice? Maybe she’ll pretend it’s fine.

Of course she doesn’t pretend. She does exactly what he was secretly hoping. She never lets him get away with shit. He never admits he did anything.

She smiles at his dumb al dente comment. He laughs at her saying they're all raw, and suddenly the dam breaks.

He’s telling her all about his work and the people he has to deal with and it feels like old times, like it was before this whole Peter-Fiona business. Like it was before the whole Baby Drew business.

He loves it. He loves her. Fuck.

**That** . He’s going to have to tell her that, isn’t he?

He’s babbling, he knows. He’s trying to come up with a way to say it ( _ she already knows, probably, everyone does) _ . Maybe he can tell her about Fiona or maybe he’ll just blurt it out.

Instead he kind of comes out of left field and asks her about dating Peter.

He keeps pushing her about Stone. He’s not even really sure why. Maybe to confirm the man wasn’t lying? Maybe to confirm she’s really available?

Maybe if she’s really not that interested it’s possible she’d be interested in him.

He’s laughing at her comment about Peter’s unwarranted flirtatiousness, and he sees her face turn. She reaches out and grabs his hand and tells him to stop changing the subject, she’s okay with him and Fiona.

She also called him cute, but she probably meant it in the same way she means it about Jesse and Noah.

He tells her Fiona is just his friend and she drops his hand. He’s not following what he just did.

Turns out she misunderstood, she thinks he’s dating his friend.

_ (No, Liv, the only friend I’m interested in dating is sitting right here. The only person I’m interested in is sitting right here) _

He makes up some job for Eric. Was that his name? Ernest? He admits he really doesn't remember what Emilio's job is because he really doesn't listen to much of Fiona's blather. 

He tells her Fiona’s not interested. This makes her sad. This makes her stare at their plates and start to pick them up.

She tells him she’s sorry Fiona isn’t in love with him, tells him she thinks unrequited love is awful, she’s been there, she gets it.

She goes to the kitchen with her plates.

He’d offer to help but he’s frozen. He’s flummoxed. He’s flabbergasted.

Who the fuck doesn’t love her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee Raf, what could she be saying with that cop comment? Hmmmmm.


	5. A perfect little death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rafael finally tells Olivia how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with much of this and I've reread so many times I'm not sure of it's quality. Also the smuttiest thing I've written in my life and I've got no idea what I'm doing there at all (I upped the rating just to be safe?)...
> 
> So I guess what I'm saying is this probably won't live up to what I set up and I'm sorry for the disappointment.

If he didn’t know better he’d think Olivia was jealous. If he didn’t know better he’d think she has no clue he feels the way he does. He’s not sure how. He’s always been quite obvious. 

It’s when she’s back from the kitchen that he snaps out of it. He asks her if she’s trying to be obtuse. She doesn’t follow, doesn’t understand. 

He tries to make it absolutely clear that he’s not interested in Fiona, he’ll never be interested in Fiona. She just seems annoyed he’s talking about Fiona. She seems hurt that he’s even using Fiona’s name. 

He can’t imagine why. 

It can’t be what he’s hoping, he’s allowed himself that dream too many times only to have it shatter in mid-air. A broken parachute worthy of Icarus. She’s his sun, she’s his moon, she’s his stars. 

She’s his world and he’s going to have to just tell her that. Fuck the consequences. 

Here goes: death by self-immolation or maybe, just maybe, the rest of his life begins ( _ wishing only wounds the heart) _ .

He tells her everything - that he’s been in love with her forever, that he thought he told her, that he only left because he couldn’t bear it anymore and he only came back for her. He tells her that he never thought she’d want him, that seeing her with Peter made his wings catch flame, that he’s always going to feel this way, there’s no getting over it. 

That he always thought she knew, a little bit, deep down.  

The look she gives him makes him finally register what Peter was trying to say - she has no idea. You have no idea. 

Maybe Peter’s not as much of a bleached pistachio as he was imagining. Maybe people are more insightful than we ever want to give them credit for. 

Maybe he’s a moron because he realizes he’s been mad at her for almost seven months for not even doing him the decency of letting him down gently.  When she’d really had no idea what he meant. He knows she didn’t exactly follow the colors speech but he always figured she’d known a little bit. 

He hadn’t even given her the opportunity to say no. He hadn’t even given her the opportunity to say yes ( _ don’t say it).  _

Now she looks like she wants to cry and he hates it when she cries. He doesn't even have a handkerchief. He feels like such an ass. He’s been such an oaf really.

Of course she’d never be that cruel, not intentionally. Not if he’d told her. So he voices his worst fear, the thing he’s been dancing around for so long it’s become part of his skin.

He tells her it’s okay, she’s allowed not to love him back. He’ll be fine. He’s saying it in a roundabout way but at least it’s not a fucking simile this time.

She laughs at him. She’s smiling, she’s shaking her head and her whole body is glowing. She can’t mean -

_ “Now who was being obtuse?”  _

He thinks his eyebrows shoot up into his hair. He thinks his heart beats in three different time signatures at once. Is this really happening? Does she really feel this way? How long has she thought this way?

Does any of that really matter when she’s telling him that she wants him back?

It’s amazing. He’s wanted this for forever, he’s practically reached out for her so many times. He’s done it millions of times in his dreams and better fantasies, but here he can’t do it. Here he can’t cross that line. He knows where it leads if he’s wrong, but he doesn’t if he’s right. 

He’s not going to take something from her until she wants to give it. 

She crosses the point of no return and kisses him. 

It takes him a few seconds to respond because he’s not sure how much of this is real, how much of this isn’t some really poorly plotted fantasy of his. It’s when he feels her getting discouraged that he realizes this is fulling fucking real. He takes his cue, grabs his chance with abandon.

He really could do this for forever. Kiss her for days on end. He’d be happy to move onto other things, but he’s fine here and he’s not doing anything she didn’t ask him for. 

He also thinks his lungs may be burning and his heart may be clawing out of his chest but he’s okay with that. He didn't know it could feel like this and be a good thing. He didn’t realize it was possible to be this happy. He thought people made that shit up to sell greeting cards. 

Love’s a dirty business, isn’t it? 

She’s making strangled noises. She’s much more into this than even his wilder fantasies would have had him imagine. He’s trying to keep from smiling too much, that’s how he knows it’s real. In his imaginings she’s always a little far removed. Maybe that was to remind himself they were just dreams. To remind himself Dulcinea was only a figment. 

Olivia is an angel, a knight, his sun on cold hard ground. He doesn’t even care how sappy that makes him sound. 

But, then, she’s moving him in weird directions and angling her head at odd angles. Maybe she’s not as into this as he thought. 

The whimper she gives when he stops tells him he was wrong about that. She’s practically lit from the inside - his star, the center of his universe. He could look at her like this for the rest of his life. 

He only just registers she’s looking at him like that too. Wow okay. Maybe he  **was** obtuse. 

He was definitely fucking obtuse.

He manages some line about not feeling like she has to. He knows she wants to, they both want to. He’s going to shuffle off his mortal coil if he doesn’t get to -- but this is her decision. 

He knows she loves that he’s asking. He knows he doesn’t actually have to. He knows he definitely needs to. 

Things are really quite a blur after she says yes. He knows he’s kissing up and down her neck and clothes are being strewn about, but that’s about far as his coherence goes. He manages to get her to the bed. She manages to get a condom. 

He’s so out of his head he barely registers that she’s really enjoying herself. It all feels incredible. He’s really not sure if that’s because either of them know what they’re doing or because feelings are involved. He really doesn’t care. The scream from her orgasm gets caught in her throat and he has to take a few minutes to recover from his. 

He about to apologize for finishing so quickly, but he catches her eyes and just can’t believe what's there. That same way he's always looked at her - maybe he's her sun and moon and stars too.

Tears well in her eyes and he can’t stand it. She tells him they wasted time, that she can’t believe they didn’t do this sooner. He doesn’t disagree, but he means it when he says they didn’t waste it. 

Sure, his brain and his heart and his dick would have liked to do this five - okay six - years ago, but he wouldn’t have been ready for it, not in the same way. 

He would have been figuring out how to love her, how to love Noah. Probably would have ended up breaking up a few times and getting back together a few times. Fighting over whether they needed to disclose. Fighting over everything all the time and not in a way that made anyone feel better.

Maybe things could have been different, but if he dwells on the past and what they didn’t do, he can’t focus on the future and what he can do. Even if it’s just lying with her for hours, even if it’s just realizing he’s allowed to stare now. He’s okay with all of it. 

He's delightfully, blissfully happy with all of it. 

He's fucking chuffed, really.

He’s alright with leaving before Noah gets back. He’d sort of planned on that happening. 

They’ve got time to talk about what this is and why she thought something as dumb as him being in love with Fiona. Or why he thought something as ridiculous as her trying to torture him by dating Peter.

He’d prefer to stay here and never leave. That’s too far too fast. He can offer her support before he pushes. 

When her phone goes off with a beep and she gets up to look for it he spends a little too much time staring. She gives him crap for it, but in a half-hearted way that indicates she wants him to keep doing it. As if he’s even capable of stopping.

He takes the opportunity to gather his clothes and at least put on some underwear and a shirt. He’s sure he’s out of here soon anyway. He checks his phone while she’s gathering up her own stuff. It will distract him from the fact that all he wants to do is get her out of the clothes she’s putting back on. 

Lucy made good on her promise to send pictures. It’s Noah with an Olaf doll. 

_ [He wants to know when Uncle Rafa is taking him back. I said you’d discuss later.] _

_ [So it went well?] _

_ [I could ask you the same thing.] _

This text is followed by another with a full string of different heart and hand emojis (something with hearts for eyes and one that looks like it's praying). He does not understand youth culture. 

_ [Possibly.] _

_ [You are the worst, Burr!] _

He shakes his head, clicks his screen button so it goes back to black. He’s not falling for Lucy’s Hamilton references, or they’ll be here all night. He’s got better things to do. 

He looks over at Liv, who’s smiling. Apparently Lucy has been texting her too.

He kisses her again. He could do that for so much longer. It’s perfect. 

They get back into bed and basically cuddle. He’s cuddling? Maybe he shouldn’t have knocked it before. It feels - divine.

When she asks him to stay his heart wants to thrum out of his chest. Maybe she’s fully in, all in - head first too.

Maybe he’s been misreading everything. Maybe he should take a page out of Fiona’s Book of Spells and Potions and use his words from now on. 

He’s about to fall asleep but then she asks him about the gala. She acts like he didn’t notice her dress. For a second he thinks she must be joking. 

Didn’t his eyes practically bulge out of his head? Didn’t he tell her to come back in? Didn’t he spend like five whole minutes imagining a grand scenario straight out of a romance novel? 

Of course he did, but she didn’t know that. She only saw that he was mad. She only saw Fiona. She was being willfully dubious, he thinks, but weren’t they both? So he tells her everything. Maybe he’s finally learning to use his words. 

She still seems to think he’s enamored of Satan’s half-sister. Part of his original plan was just to set the record straight. He never honestly thought it would end this way - despite what Fiona and Lucy and Peter and Joyce were all trying to say.

This was better. This was so much better. 

Maybe he should have taken Joyce up on that call months ago. Maybe Liv has always been quite obvious too.

When he realizes Fiona had her own master plan, for whatever nefarious purpose, he does want to kill her a little. But he mostly doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right. He’ll manage to get over it. 

That harpy. Devilish, diabolical Fiona. He'll have to send her flowers. Or whatever witches get instead of flowers - eye of newt?

They’re a pair really, him and Olivia. Wanted the same thing for the same reasons for so long. Were mad at each other for the same things really. Just couldn’t talk about what they wanted to -  _ needed to _  - without revealing too much. 

He can’t believe he thought she liked Stone either. Of course she didn’t fall for his charm and ingratiation. Of course she didn’t want easy and quiet. She really did just want him. Who’d have thought? 

She’d earned someone who would love her this much - maybe they both had.

Maybe they both deserved someone who would dress up for you even if they didn’t really want to. Maybe they both deserved someone who would bring you coffee even if you’d been avoiding them. Maybe they always had it. 

It’s really not Stone’s fault he walked into this mess. He was just doing a job. Maybe Liv should stop holding it against him. Maybe he should let go of his grudge. He does tell her that she should be nicer. She’s seems like she’s going to put as much effort into that as he will. (Like she’ll probably help him if he catches fire, but she’ll have to think about it first). 

He doesn’t really want to talk about this though. He wants to imagine pulling that dress off of her. He wants to actually pull this shirt off of her. 

He’s got all night. 

When she wants to stop talking he realizes it’s time to get to work - to start worshipping her the way he always intended. He’s not entirely proud of the way the first bout went. Things just kind of flew by and he got ahead of himself and he wants to savor. 

He’s not entirely sure she noticed, what with the noises she made. It’s possible they both got ahead of themselves. 

He has plans to tease her for a bit but when she starts undulating against him the minute he puts his fingers against her he can’t help but smile. 

He leans down to drag his tongue against her pulse point. When she tries to stroke him he appreciates the gesture but he can’t accept. 

This is her turn. 

Besides, he needs her naked. The noise she makes when he removes his hand goes straight to him but he’s got plans. He’s going to watch her come this time.

He gets the shirt off and lingers a little too long looking at her. Feels her breath catch like she’s surprised. 

Well honey. He meant it when he said he’d been in love with her for years. Maybe he’d done too good a job hiding this from her. Maybe he wasn’t the only one misinterpreting. Maybe he’s going to have to prove himself a little. 

She seems a bit uncomfortable but she’s going to have to get used to this. She seems to want this over quickly, but he’s been dreaming of it for an amount time he stopped bothering to keep track of. He’s going to enjoy it. When he says as much and removes his shirt he can’t help the puff up he does at the appreciative gaze she gives him. 

When she tells him she has her own fantasies he nearly ends himself right there. Falls on his sword at the battle. He’s lost. Completely. 

Yeah, she definitely wasn’t the only one being obtuse.

But he’s got plans. 

He suckles at her nipple and he feels her moaning already. He’s not complaining. He moves to the other one and she’s yelling again - unintelligible sounds, words that aren’t real. At least not in any language he knows. 

He moves lower, kisses her stomach, swipes at her belly button. It’s not until he’s kissing at her pantyline, coaxing her to open up her legs for him, that she seems to register where he’s been going the whole time. 

Her legs flail a little, she looks down, panicked a bit. His hands are at her hips, his eyes are meeting hers, willing her to explain. She shakes her head. 

“That’s not - you don’t need to do that.”

Like it’s a chore, like she doesn’t want him to feel obligated. Like she asked him to do it. He’s not entirely sure what she’s uncomfortable with. The lack of control or that she’s always the one who does everything. 

She’d never admit it but she’s being self-conscious. He thinks she’s beautiful. Then again, every part of her is beautiful. Always will be.  

“Don’t need to or you don’t want me to?”

She closes her eyes for a second. Like she doesn’t want to discuss this. 

“Does it really matter?

He’s trying to support before he pushes, he just wants to do this but he has to make sure she’s ready. He wants to ask her what dumb ex made her think this way but he also knows it could be something else entirely. 

“Yes. If you don’t want me to then I’ll stop. If you think I’m doing it out of a sense of duty or something you’re incorrect. I want to.” 

She rolls her eyes a little, smirks back at him. He knows she’s okay before she even says it. 

“You don’t need to, but if you must.” 

He smiles, sits back on his legs. He hooks his fingers into the sides of her underwear and pulls them down. He may have another fantasy about her legs wrapped around his waist on a desk, but that’s another thought for another time. He pulls them off her and throws them across the room. 

She’s looking over in the direction of where they sailed, probably about to admonish him for his messiness, when he buries his face at the juncture of her thighs. She yelps a little when he kisses her inner thigh. He reaches across and helps her spread out her legs, uses his fingers to open her folds. Sucks, licks at every part but where she wants him. Repeatedly. 

She’s very vocal about how this makes her feel. He never imagined she’d be this chatty in bed. 

Okay he imagined. Multiple times. Multiple ways. He never believed it would actually happen. 

“God Rafa,” she whines, “You don’t have to prove to me you’re good at this.” 

He pauses, looks up. Her face is red, her nipples distended and glistening from his earlier actions. She's heaving. She pulls her legs up to put her feet on his back, trying to give herself some leverage. She reaches her hands down to grasp at the back of his head 

“Just get to work already.” 

Okay then. She’s mouthy as hell. What a welcome change from the person who tried to tell him this wasn’t necessary. Maybe she likes it too much. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want him to start. 

Tough shit. He loves it. He loves her. 

He moves back, swipes his tongue all the way along her slit. She almost kicks him off the bed.  

“Fuck!” she screeches. 

Maybe he should write a preemptive apology to the rest of the building for the noises she’s making. Maybe that just makes him want to continue doing this for forever. 

He can sense her about to get mouthy again. Before she can, he gently inserts a finger into her opening. She about kicks him again. He shouldn’t push it, he’s going to end up in some kind of embarrassing accident. He can’t help it. 

“Jumpy, are we? Am I moving too fast?”

“You know you’re not. I can’t believe this is funny to you,” she gasps as he adds a second finger, stifles a moan. 

“You can let that out anytime you feel like,” he offers. 

He bends back down and wraps his lips around her hood. Pumps in rhythm at her entrance. She lets go of the moan.  

She’s groaning sounds he’s not sure are supposed to be intelligible or not. He’s suckling now. She’s making high pitched whistling noises that go straight to his dick. They wrap around it and get him erect like she’s doing something physically. 

“I’m so close. Don’t you dare fucking stop.” 

She meets his eyes and he’s in awe. Momentarily forgets what he was doing because she’s full of love and bliss and happiness and things he never actually dared to believe she would want from him.

He flattens his tongue against her and she tumbles out another moan - near a growl. He alternates between sucking and licking, times it with the in and out motions. 

She’s done for. Watching her orgasm is one of the better moments of his life. He can’t believe he gets to do this to her, for her. 

“That should -” She catches her breath. He keeps licking as she comes down from her climax. “Your mouth should be illegal.” 

He removes his hand. Wipes his mouth. Sucks his fingers clean. Tries not to lose his wits when her eyes darken at the act. 

He leans back down and kisses her. He tries for this to be gentle, but she’s pushy and forward and things escalate quickly when you're both this passionate about everything.

He pulls back momentarily.

“It’s not my fault you don’t play fair with your - everything.” 

He’s trying to be a tease, he’s trying to be playful. He thinks it’s working because the look she gives him is practically beatific. 

“Oh pobrecito, why don’t I kiss it and make it all better.”

He thinks she’s teasing him, about to kiss him back and go to sleep. It’s not until she’s halfway down his legs and pulling down his boxers he realizes. It’s not until her lips are kissing the head of his penis and then wrapped around it that he understands - he's made this a competition. 

He’s not sure either of them want to win. He’s not sure there’s a point to that except this is something else. She's doing all sorts of funny business - tonguing his slit, cupping his balls, writing sonnets across his length. He feels like he's dying. 

He feels himself about to explode, taps her shoulder with his leg. She looks up, removes her mouth. Both hands are still wrapped around him. 

“What? I'm working here.”

“Liv,” he pants out, trying to gather himself, “I'm - if you keep -”

She smiles at his struggling, she's amazing. 

“Why counselor, have I finally left you speechless?”

Fuck. He’s always had a blowjob fantasy involving Olivia, maybe even before they actually liked each other. In the flesh though, is something else. The fact that she clearly loves this? Well - he's going to die a very happy man.

“You’ve got to stop. I’m about to come.” 

“See that was the whole idea.”

Her mouth goes back around him, her fingers go back to his balls. Suddenly she's got him down her throat, bobbing up and down. He feels the switch, grabs at her, expects her to let him go. 

She releases him for a second, to catch her breath, but then her tongue is swirling at his base again. She’s still stroking, strumming at his vein.

He's gone. He's done for. She just sucks him down and swallows. 

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, kisses his tip and crawls back up. 

“I think it's your mouth that should be illegal.” 

He’s still shaking a bit. She's lying on top of him with her legs between his. Chest against his.

“A pair of outlaws then. Good thing we've infiltrated the government.” 

She’s trying to be all sultry and seductive but she ends up just laughing at herself, falling into his shoulder giggling. 

She’s so beautiful. He loves her so much. 

“Come here,” he says as he wraps his arms around her. 

They kiss idly for a few minutes. It feels warm and safe.

“Seriously though - I was supposed to do that inside of you.”

“You'll recover,” she kisses him briefly. 

“Counting on this are you?” he smirks.

“I mean I can take care of myself if necessary.” 

That goes straight to him. He can feel his stomach tighten up and the blood rush to his groin. He knows she feels him against her thigh. She smiles even wider. 

“That okay with you? Maybe I should get to work while we wait for you to show up.”

She's fully aware of what she's doing. He's going to keep pushing. 

“Only if you let me watch.”

He's at half mast now. She's starting to pull away, dips a hand between her thighs. 

“Sounds like fun.” 

She's kneeling between his legs, pulling her nipple with one hand, circling her clit with two fingers of the other. She drags them down, pushing both inside. There's a flush down her chest and up her neck. Her head is thrown back.

He's fully hard now. He's not about to end this.

He watches her moan, watches her reach for her own climax, reminds himself this is all real. No fantasizing, no interruptions. He breathes out, tries not to reach for himself to alleviate the pressure. 

She looks down, sees his state.

“There we are.” 

She grins, moves her hand from her breast.

“Hey - don't stop on my account.”

“Too much work. I want you.” 

She removes her hand from her center, makes to lick it off.

“Uh-uh,” he reaches for her wrist, pulls her up on top of him again. Drags her fingers into his mouth, sucks each one separately. She makes a strange noise at the back of her throat. It sounds like how he feels.

She reaches to the bedside table, pulls a condom out of the drawer. He reaches down to help get her ready, drags a finger between her thighs. She's drenched.

“You really worked yourself up here.”

“You work me up.”

Somehow that gets him even harder. He'd put the condom on himself but she's got the package between her teeth and he's trembling anyway. He moves his hands to the outside of her thighs as she places it over him.

She moves to straddle him. His hands go around her waist. She bears down and suddenly he's inside her. It's just as glorious as the first time. 

It feels like home. He can't believe he gets to do this for the rest of his life. Maybe he's getting a bit ahead of himself. 

He doesn't think so.

There's time for talking about things later, but he's actually pretty sure this time. He should learn to drop the fantasies of future developments, but sometimes he can't help it. 

She rocks her hips, leans forward to get an angle. 

“Don't try and do all the work here,” he snarks. 

Her lips move like she wants to respond but he's hitting the spot inside her in such a way her eyes roll back. He's trying to get a rhythm but it keeps falling off. 

He starts to sit up, thrusts his hips slightly so he’s deep inside her at a better angle. She gasps. He leans forward and catches her lips in his, swallows her cries as they get the same cadence. 

He kisses along her jawline, she grabs his shoulders, his hands are at her hips. He can feel it going to static. He knows she's close but he's closer. He reaches down and rubs at her clit. 

“Oh fuck me.”

“Kind of the whole idea.”

She swats at his shoulder but she's grinning and sweaty and he hits that spot again. The noise she makes as she climaxes is what sends him over.

He falls back to the bed, she tumbles with him. His brain short circuits a bit when she brings her face up to look deeply in his eyes - and erases that last bit of scar tissue around his heart

“I love you.”

Yeah. He could die right here and not even complain. He’s planning on a few more years though. He’s supposed to be squabbling with her for at least thirty or so. He can make it to 85. As long as they’re together he thinks he can manage that out of sheer stubbornness. 

He’s getting a little ahead of himself as usual, but at least it’s no longer just fantasy. 

“I love you too.”

He kisses her, she leans into his chest. He should be getting up, cleaning up, putting clothes back on, going to sleep. Instead he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. Breathes in deeply, releases a long buried sigh. 

She found his heart at the bottom of the ocean. She's the one who had the key. She's always had the key. She's the one who gave him the heart - or at least - showed him it was there in the first place. 

For the first time in a long while he doesn't wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. He doesn't have that recurring nightmare of giant tubes strangling him as he falls into an abyss. As gentle beeps turn to sirens. As sirens turn to a flatline.

He's filled with visions of horses and dragons and giants. Of verdant fields specked with windmills. Of farms and castles and armor.

He always did read too much.

* * *

Fiona seems to think something is wrong with him when he doesn’t immediately respond to her request for comment via text message on Saturday morning.

He’s sorry if he was otherwise occupied.

It wasn’t even that dirty, mind you. He was making pancakes and trying to explain that the spaghetti problem was a one time occurrence. He’s really not that bad of a cook. When Liv found the dumped noodles in the trash he withdrew his case. He’ll have to retry once he gathers more evidence. 

He tells Fi to mind her own business. She sends him back a raised eyebrow emoji. He puts his phone on silent and ignores her the rest of the weekend. 

He’s expecting to see her sitting outside his office when he walks in at eight. She doesn’t show up until nine, with a cheese danish and a coffee cup he suspects contains herbal tea (What kind of person doesn't drink coffee? What kind of demon doesn't need coffee?)

He tells her he’s not giving her details but it did go well and he’s happy. She seems half-satisfied with this answer, asks him if Olivia did wear the dress for him. He just turns away in response, which she knows means yes. 

He asks her if she was trying to break his heart. She seems genuine when she says no. She was trying to make Olivia jealous, but only temporarily. She didn’t plan on Stone showing up or both of them being so obdurate. She informs him that it’s obvious to literally everyone they’re both in love and says it was driving her batty to watch him not do anything about it. 

“So you almost ruined my life because I was annoying you?”

She sips her drink. Clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

“You almost ruined your life by being an asshole instead of telling her how beautiful you thought she looked.” 

As usual she’s not wrong. She just doesn’t have to be so direct about it. It’s possible the directness is what he likes about her. 

“She always looks beautiful.” 

She rolls her eyes and leans forward in her chair.

“See - it's that kind of shit you could have casually dropped into the conversation instead of glowering and pretending she wasn't there.”

He doesn’t really have an argument against that. He could take apart her entire plan for how many moving parts it actually involved, how it was really very poorly executed. He could tell her that meddling only works in the movies. 

He could admit that it would have worked if Stone hadn’t accidentally been there. He’s not about to. 

Instead, he chooses to let it go. Almost, anyway. Charity for all sometimes, right?

“As if you're perfect.”

He doesn’t actually buy her flowers, or a broomstick. He does stop the general surliness when she makes him go to that stupid trendy place. He’s still not convinced she didn’t do this for herself. He can’t begin to be mad at her for it. Not entirely, anyway. 

* * *

He does send Liv flowers, though. He gets a dozen roses - half red, half yellow.

Then he decides that’s probably a little traditional and he thinks he should have consulted the florist before he made a rash choice. There’s probably a whole thing about the amount of roses or those colors together. He thinks it’s fine though - love and friendship, joy, passion. That’s what he feels.

She may not even want him to send things like this.

They didn’t really get to discussing if they actually wanted to be out in the open about it on Saturday morning. They were mostly occupied with chasing Noah around and lying on the couch. He also tried to help Liv fold laundry, but was distracted with dinosaurs and robots

Noah also wanted to watch Frozen again and they let him. He might know all the words to “Let It Go”. He may actually know all the words to “Fixer Upper” by now. He's found himself mumbling the words under his breath sometimes. Only Noah's caught him. Sometimes he'll indulge Noah when he wants to sing the duet together. Only sometimes. 

Oh well. She can pretend the flowers are from some secret admirer or whoever. They’ll talk about it later. He brings her coffee and half-expects them to still be in the wrapping or somewhere in the back of her office when he gets there.

Instead, they are in the vase, on her desk, next to the picture of Noah. 

She’s standing next to him when he gestures to them. 

“Sorry about those, I got … excited. I should have asked if they were okay.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Rafa - I told you I loved you and let you fold my laundry. I think it’s okay that you send me flowers.” 

“Right,” he spins his wheels for a second. She did tell him she loved him. He didn’t imagine that. Not being able to breathe certainly feels better now. “I just wasn’t sure if it was okay to tell people yet.” 

She just shakes her head and leans forward, kisses him lightly. She’s got both hands on his chest when she nods her head toward the window, “I think they already know.” 

He looks over - Rollins is beaming, Carisi is literally giving him two thumbs up and Fin is shaking his head lightly but seems pleased. 

He laughs, “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”

She goes back to sit behind her desk, he sits across from her. He really did come over here to get details on a victim she needed assistance with. A young live-in nanny who had accused a prominent TV personality of rape. Except, she was undocumented and Stone was having a tough time getting the political capital to feel comfortable bringing to trial. 

That’s where he came in. 

He’s really not sure how he ever ended up the person who gets to schmooze politicians. He’s never been anything but a loudmouth, a smartass - but maybe that’s part of it. Maybe they know he sees right through their bullshit and can’t offer him any kind of favors to get him to go away. 

He loves it, honestly. Sometimes it actually works. Sometimes he can actually help. He's finally learned to live with the failures. 

* * *

He asks Liv on a date the next day. A real, proper one with a fancy meal and dressing up. She says she’d love to just have a quiet meal with him and Noah, if that’s okay with him. It’s then he realizes that she was letting him in the whole time. She never needed to be romanced or cooked for or given speeches. She’d been waiting for him.

Letting him love Noah was letting him into her heart. 

He works up the courage to tell her he's sorry for being so stupid, for leaving, for basically shutting her out and not allowing her to save him from drowning. He had to remember how to tread water. He had to learn how to swim.

He had to pull himself out of the deep end to know where he needed to go. Even if he would have loved to be saved by her - his white knight riding in on a steed, his Galahad. He had to become his own savior. He had to slay the dragon himself.

He had to remember he was always a knight himself - even if he's only just Don Quixote. Even if he's just tilting at windmills, it's a righteous quest. 

Maybe she was his unreachable star. 

She tells him he can't expect her to follow shit about windmills or knights but she thinks she understands. They were both a little dumb, she's sorry she's always made him a little sad. 

He’s shocked. The work made him sad, the cases, the people, the broken justice system he’s still trying to help fix. 

She never actually made him sad. Always drove him a little crazy maybe. It was only when he didn't see her, when he refused to tell her, let himself think he'd never be worthy, that he was sad. 

The rest was just drama really. ( _ Use your words.) _

So he decides to tell her, to talk about his feelings, to make plans, to go on fancy dates they'll probably cancel because they're both workaholics.

They're both willing to march into hell for the right cause, for that unbeatable obstacle, for the idea that some things, still maybe, can be fixed.

They both know it though. Neither of them will actually be all that mad if they have to cancel. 

The beauty of dating someone who you used to work with is they understand your schedule. The beauty of dating your best friend is they’ll forgive you for cancelling. The beauty of dating someone you’re already in love with is - well the dates don’t actually matter that much

* * *

He’s waiting for her downstairs one day before one of the dates they had planned. He’s told her he’s fine to come up, he can play with Noah while she gets ready (He's added Tristan the Triceratops into his dinosaur repertoire - his range may be expanding).

She insists that it will be just a minute, if he comes up they’ll get distracted and never leave and besides, Noah isn’t even there.

He tells the doorman he’s sorry for loitering. He’s just waiting for someone, she’ll be right down. The doorman nods. 

“Yes, Ms Benson. I know.” 

_ Lieutenant Benson,  _ he resists the urge to correct on title. He guesses they’re not at work. No one calls him  _ Director Barba.  _

“Oh, so she put me on a list?”

“No, there’s no list,” he smiles. Knowingly it seems, “You look better since you got back from wherever you were, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

The doorman knows him, recognizes him from before?    


“Well, thank you,” he manages to remember his manners. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever given you my name. I’m Rafael.”

He reaches out a hand, the man shakes it. 

“I’m Angelo, sir,” he looks over conspiratorially. “Since we’re on first names now, I’m glad you’re back. I was rooting for you two to work it out.”

He’s about to ask Angelo just how much he's been watching and why. But he’s mostly just glad to know he’s been paying attention. He didn’t let him in that first day because he didn’t care. He genuinely knew his face. Angelo seems like a good egg. He needs to stop hanging around so many cops, he’s thinking things like “good egg.”

It’s then that Olivia comes out of the building, wearing a full coat. She smiles. 

“Making friends?”

She grabs his hand, intertwines their fingers. He looks down, reminds himself he's supposed to be responding to her.

“Actually yes.”

She seems pleased, nods at his new friend - this overly observant doorman. Though he guesses it’s not a bad thing for a doorman to be observant. 

“Thanks for taking care of him Angelo.”

Angelo smiles, returns the nod.

“My pleasure Ms Benson.”   


He's holding hands with his girlfriend in public and he's trying not to act like a high school freshman about it. She's recently started doing this and he knows he should be used to it by now, but he's really not. He's not sure he's ever going to be used to her, let alone used to being able to touch her like this.

He’s offered to take a cab to this place, or call an Uber. She insists on walking. He’s not sure why since it’s several blocks away and fancy and she’s wearing strappy heels. Those can’t be good for walking.

It’s not until he looks down at her feet, worrying about them, that he sees the tail of the dress. 

Emerald green. 

He stops cold, she looks over at him.

“Liv - is that -” he falls off, releases her hand, comes to a stop behind her. 

“Yes.” 

It’s  **_the_ ** dress. He thinks he's breathing, standing on the ground here on a Midtown sidewalk. He's really not sure though. 

“No wonder you wanted to meet me downstairs,” she grins at him. “You expect me to sit through this fancy dinner and control myself?”

He leans in to kiss her but she moves away, lets him bury his head in her shoulder.

“Looking is fine but no touching. Not yet.”

He almost whines, something worthy of a small child, almost gets into a whole argument about semantics since he's technically touching her now. Instead he sighs and pushes himself back up.

“You know I have a whole fantasy about that dress. You’re killing me.”

“So do I. That’s kind of the whole idea. You’re free to act it out later.”

She grabs his hand back, brings their fingers back together, and practically drags him to the restaurant.

He’s a good boy. It’s not the one where he fucks her against the bathroom stall, though he does come very close to that when she makes some sultry comment about powdering her nose. He’s not taking the bait when his plans are more involved than that.

He takes her home, they share a bottle of wine. One things leads to another. Noah’s spending the night with Uncle Sonny. 

So he peels the dress off in the living room and kneels between her legs. She makes some protest about getting the furniture dirty. He can’t help but laugh at that one. He’s pretty sure she was the one kneeling between his legs on the couch last week. 

He’s so goddamn happy he can’t even stand it. He doesn’t know why they didn’t do this years ago. Stubbornness, jealousy, inability to talk about their feelings. It’s fine, really. He sort of means it this time.

He thinks he might actually, finally, be healed. Even if she’s really going to be the death of him. It’ll be perfect, really. He’s got thirty years or so. He's got his family. It's possible he's had it the whole time.

He's finally slain his dragon - sometimes in his dreams he slices open the tubes before they reach him. Sometimes in his dreams he actually is the conquering hero, the white knight, one of the others on Galahad's quest for the grail. The one who's _this close_ to deserving it, but not quite yet.

Most of the time he's just Quixote, on grand adventures of fancy, making castles out of inns, giants out of windmills. 

He's really just a man doing his best. He's still got burdens. He still spends extra hours trying to help, still strains himself attempting to dismantle and reassemble a broken system. Sometimes he’s just a hothead. But - he's got a support system now. He's learned to use the support system he's always had. 

He knows the system is broken beyond reason and always has been. That doesn't mean he shouldn't try to fix parts. It doesn't mean he has to shoulder every failure. 

_ A just and lasting peace among ourselves. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. :)
> 
> Special thanks (again) to rosehips for dealing with my random side notes and panics about this fic!


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